


Wascals

by copyallcatsandacrobats (ordinaryalchemy)



Series: Hunting Season [1]
Category: Psych
Genre: Background Case, F/M, Humor, M/M, Open Relationships, Porn, Threesome - F/M/M, and shawn likes popsicles, jules and shawn do a thing, juliet knows what she wants, lassy is so confused, lots of bunnies, mentions of taxidermy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-19
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-01-20 00:13:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 36,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1489582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinaryalchemy/pseuds/copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q: How do you catch a rabbit?<br/>A: Stand behind a tree and make a noise like a carrot.<br/>Q: How do you catch a Lassiter?<br/>A: Juliet and Shawn would like to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Detectives Walk Into A Bar...

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many thanks to my good friend Sara (sarcasticsra) for looking this over for me. I went with her notes on just about everything, and anything left over that's stupid is likely my override because sometimes I get to be stupid.
> 
> In this canon divergence, Lassiter has left the SBPD very shortly after the end of season one, and has transferred to Macon, Georgia...because of reasons. Soon after he left, Juliet and Shawn began a relationship; this story begins almost a year later from that point.

  
_You make me want to walk_  
_Like a camel_  
—Southern Culture On the Skids, “Camel Walk”

**JUNE 2008**

  
Carlton Lassiter hit the bar like four pounds of pressure on a five-pound trigger: not quite ready to fire, but needing in the worst way to let off or just detonate. He ordered a double, laid down a fifty, told the girl wielding the bottles to keep them coming, and then he closed his eyes and tried to drown out the background babble of the other patrons while he downed almost the entirety of his first drink like a shot. True to the method, it barely burned—at first. But so did a lot of things.

“Carlton?”

He lifted his head and looked around, knowing the voice but not placing it at once. And why should he? It'd been almost a year since he'd been in Santa Barbara. He was surprised to see his former partner—surprised but pleased—and when he smiled, it felt tired on his face. “O'Hara,” he said. 

She had a look in her eyes he also didn't immediately place, and when he did, he almost couldn't credit it: she was happy to see him. “I didn't know you were in town,” she said, smiling warmly. “It's great to see you. How's Georgia?”

“Full of humidity and inbred morons, not in that order.” He paused and then motioned to the seat next to him. “I'm sorry, please sit down. Would you like a drink?”

“That would be great. Vodka rocks,” she said to the bartender. “How long has it been?” she wondered as she slid onto the stool. “I'm pretty sure the last time I saw you was at your farewell party, remember? I gave you a goodbye kiss.”

He glanced at her quickly, trying to assess what was underneath her tone. Yes, she had given him a goodbye kiss. One hell of a goodbye kiss—he'd taken the memory of her soft tongue with him, one of the few good memories. “Yes, you did,” he said. Then he frowned. “That idiot Spencer tried to as well.”

O'Hara chuckled and thanked the bartender when she set a drink on the napkin in front of her. “Are you seeing anyone now?” she asked. “Is there a Georgia peach in your life?”

He hesitated, trying to quash the reflex to shove anyone curious enough to ask about his personal life into the nearest body of water. “No, I've been very busy,” he said. “You wouldn't believe the state of the Macon police department. I spent two months ascertaining how many of them could actually pass an inspection. Or correctly pronounce words like 'wash' and 'idea'. Not that any of them has ever been properly washed, or has had an idea.”

O'Hara nodded, sipping her drink. “Are you sorry you went?”

He shrugged. “No. A few of them are working on a career of getting my dander up, but the chief likes having someone around who actually knows what he's doing, so I can just smile at them from my top parking space, my private office, and the thirty-eight times my name has been in the papers for arrests and closed cases.” He realized that he was going on about himself too much, but it was difficult to stop. He'd almost forgotten what a sympathetic ear and an intelligent audience was like. He should be polite to one of the few people who had ever professed to understand and to like him, to even enjoy working with him. “I'm sorry,” he said after a moment. “How have you been?”

“Good,” she said. “I'm still at the SBPD and things are going really well. I solved the Devon Rosberger murder—well, I did get some help from Shawn and Gus. It was his son, not his wife.”

Lassiter snorted. “They still doing that fake-psychic thing?”

“Their agency has actually really taken off,” O'Hara said, tilting her glass so that the ice clinked against the side. “They're working almost entirely private cases, but Chief Vick still hires them occasionally—like when Shawn doesn't take, 'Do not, for any reason, help us' for an answer. They've been in the news and on TV; Shawn loves the attention.”

“I'm sure.” Lassiter made a face, not really wanting to talk about Spencer right now, not on his last night in California and his first night seeing a friendly face.

“So why are you in town?” O'Hara asked, effortlessly reading his mood and changing the subject. He missed having a partner he was so in sync with. Of all the things he left behind here, he missed her quite near the top of the list.

“My sister got married this week.” He tossed back the rest of his drink and signaled the bartender. “I'm going back tomorrow.”

When O'Hara didn't reply for several moments, he glanced at her again and raised his eyebrows at the probing look on her face. The memory of her hands on the back of his neck and her body pressing into him flashed into his mind again, and he quickly picked up his fresh drink. She wasn't wearing a bra.

“I'm seeing someone,” O'Hara said softly.

Lassiter tried not to react to that, but damn, she knew him. “I'm sure,” he told his scotch. “I mean, you... I'm glad.”

“We've been living together for almost a year,” she continued, studying his face. “And it's great. We're... very open.” Something about that made him look at her again, questioning. There was a little smile on her face. “An open relationship, Carlton. We're careful... but we're also, you know. Free.”

“Free,” he repeated.

She nodded seriously, though she was still smiling. “He's out with someone right now, actually. He'll be gone all night.” She paused. “I'm going to be alone tonight. Unless...”

“You...” He was entirely unsure how to go on from this, and he went back to his drink in lieu of turning toward her and showing her how interested at least part of him was becoming. He'd never pegged her as the type to go in for that sort of thing—he'd thought she would be too smart. She was a detective!

“You should come home with me, Carlton.”

He gaped at her. “O'Hara!”

“Juliet,” she corrected softly. She reached over and laid her left hand over his. “If you want to—if you want me.”

He opened his mouth to protest, to point out how inappropriate it would be: even if they weren't partners anymore, she was in a relationship. Even if her boyfriend was sleeping with someone else as well. But then... O'Hara's right hand found its way onto his thigh, into his lap, and he jerked. They were both adults, not working together, and it was no one else's business. 

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice low.

She was so close, and her eyes were so big and dark. “Absolutely.”

.

Juliet went to the restroom before they left, half sure that Carlton would be gone when she came back; it had been more than obvious he was attracted to her, and she to him, but after he and his previous partner were nearly fired for their relationship, and she'd made it clear that she wasn't into the idea of sleeping with someone she worked so closely with, he went out of his way to not use her first name, to not even touch her unless it was absolutely necessary, to make a point of knowing next to nothing about her personal life. She respected him for it and didn't press him, but she'd be lying if she said she hadn't thought of his hands, and his pale blue eyes, a little more than frequently. And now that they _weren't_ working together...

She washed her hands and sent a text that she'd found a date and was bringing him home, and then she smiled and rolled her eyes when she got one back almost instantly requesting the “gooey details”. She promised to disclose all gooiness the next day, reapplied her perfume, and left the ladies'.

Carlton wasn't at the bar; she was hugely disappointed, but not surprised. She glanced around to see if there happened to be anyone else she knew in the vicinity and was delighted to find Carlton standing near the door, just flipping his phone closed. He saw her and stood up straighter and she grinned.

“I just called a cab,” he said softly when she came over. “Five minutes.”

“Great.” She couldn't stop smiling, loving the giddy rush of anticipation. “It's a nice night; let's wait outside.”

“All right.” He held the door for her and she didn't miss the downward flick of his eyes as she walked past him.

In the back seat of the cab, Juliet tried to get into his lap, but instead she found that she had to laugh exasperatedly when he pointed out that she couldn't do that and wear her seat belt at the same time. Same old Carlton... now if she could only get him to call her Juliet when she did get on top of him. 

Inside her apartment, she immediately put her arms around his neck and pulled him down for a kiss, not letting him go when he tried to pull back; instead, she pushed a little more, sending them both against the closed door and her breasts crashing into his chest. When his big hands rested on her shoulders, she finally took her tongue back and smiled up at him, caressing the back of his neck with her thumbs. “Can I take your jacket?” she asked. “Let's have another drink.”

He looked more than blown away, like he was trying to get back on an even footing, which she liked. “Sure,” he said after a moment. “That... would be good.”

She hung up his jacket and went to the cupboard, hoping the bottle of Johnnie Walker was still there—it was. When she handed him a glass, her fingers lingering over his for too long, he stared into her eyes and swallowed without sipping his drink. She smiled sweetly and turned toward the living room. “Let's get more comfortable.”

.

He couldn't believe his hand was on her breast, carefully feeling the soft, firm roundness. Her nipples were hard and so was he, her mouth as slick and sweet as before, and when she raised up and threw a leg over his lap, sitting directly over his crotch, he slipped his fingers underneath her blouse and stroked the smooth skin underneath her breasts.

“Mmmm,” she said softly. He was very tempted to agree.

He jumped when there came a loud knock at the door, the worldwide renowned first half of 'Shave and A Haircut'. O'Hara paused, waiting, and sighed when the last two knocks came, louder and slower than the first. “I'll be right back,” she promised, standing and smoothing her top back down. “Don't go anywhere.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Lassiter said shakily. He watched her go around the corner and heard her open the door, and then he sat forward to get his drink. He could hear voices and fervently wished they would go away. 

“Hi, Juliet. I have a present for you,” a low male voice said. “We were on the way back to my place, but my wife called me from her parents' and said I need to go meet them.”

“Oh, is everything okay?”

“I dunno, something about her sister. I'm sure it's fine. He said you found a date, so I'm sorry, but I had to bring him back and we didn't want to come crashing in. We were drinking and he's in his handsy phase. Have fun.”

There was a shuffling of feet and O'Hara grunted as with a heavy weight. “Oof. Stand up, Shawn.”

 _Shawn?_ Not Spencer, Lassiter thought, his hand frozen with the glass halfway to the table. Please not Spencer.

“Thanks, Kyle,” O'Hara's voice went on. “I'm sure he'll want you to call him again when you've got another free night.”

“Every night is a free night, Jules,” came another voice, and Lassiter groaned softly. Had she told him her boyfriend's name? No. Please no, what a way to ruin what could have been an amazing night. 

There were goodbyes and the door closed, and then O'Hara was in the doorway, pulling a very drunk and yammering Shawn Spencer behind her. Lassiter sighed, thinking that this made perfect sense. If something seemed too good to be true... and of course, he was holding a rabbit. No, a taxidermied rabbit, which he was trying to offer to O'Hara, who took it from him with a look of distaste and set it on a side table.

O'Hara led Spencer to the other end of the sofa Lassiter was sitting on, and she pushed on his shoulders to make him sit. “Whee,” he said, dropping down on the cushions. “Aww, that was like, the worst carnival ride ever. Where's my bunny? That's a V.I.B., you know. A very... important... bunny wabbit.”

“Shawn, I have a guest.”

“You're very good at hiding him,” he told her chest. “Or her?”

“Him.”

“Ooh. Will he fuck me?”

Lassiter blinked several times. _What?_

“No... probably not, Shawn.”

Spencer pouted. “Awww...”

“We can ask,” O'Hara's eyes flicked to Lassiter, who stared back at her, bewildered. What in god's name had she brought him back to? “But probably not. I'm pretty sure he's straight.”

“Aww... Is he going to fuck you?”

“That's the plan.”

“Can I watch?”

“Of course, if you're good.”

He grinned, finally looking up at her eyes. “I am _so_ good.”

.

Juliet leaned down close to Shawn's face. “Don't be startled,” she warned.

“Don't be startled,” he repeated. Juliet glanced at Carlton, and when she looked back, Shawn held up his hands and jumped at her. “Boo!”

She started a little and then swatted his arm while he giggled. “Settle down.”

“I will do no such thing,” he said loftily, gazing at her boobs again. “It's insane in the membrane for you to even suggest it.”

“Shhhhh.” She waited until he looked up from her breasts; then she raised her finger, getting his attention. When he was looking at her finger like a cat fixing on a laser pointer, she pointed to Carlton, who was watching them carefully.

Shawn looked at him, not registering surprise—or anything, really. He glanced back at Juliet. “Whoa, how did you do that?” he whispered.

“I'm magic,” she said. “You remember who that is, don't you, Shawn?”

“Yeah, Lassie.” He looked back again and his face broke into a huge grin. “Lassie! Jules, look, it's _Lassie_! Oh man, I missed you!”

“I _know_ , Shawn, he's my guest.” Juliet was laughing while Shawn vaulted up from his end of the couch and plopped down in Carlton's lap, straddling him and wrapping his arms around him. Carlton raised his hands and looked at Juliet, who shrugged. 

“I... hi, Spencer,” Carlton managed.

“You're back! And your front,” Shawn added, squeezing him again. “I missed your front. When did you get back home?”

“I didn't—I'm not—” Carlton was still holding his hands up and looking confused. “I'm going back tomorrow. Uh, Spencer, can you get off me?”

“Do I have to?” Shawn nuzzled his face into Carlton's chest. “What if I want to sleep here? You're cozy.”

“You can't sleep on him,” Juliet said.

“Don't tell me how to live my life, Jules.”

She let out a breath that was partly an exasperated laugh. “I would never do that. But he asked you to get off.”

“Cool, I was planning on it. Kyle had to go and I am unfulfilled. Promises were made, or implied contract, something?”

“Shawn.”

Shawn broke the embrace but didn't get off Carlton's lap. “Lassie, I was sad when you moved away,” he said seriously. “All those good times we had. I am so glad to see you. Will you fuck me?”

Carlton looked back up into Shawn's face, shocked. “Wh—I—you're drunk.”

“I'm _very_ drunk,” Shawn agreed confidentially. “Are you straight?”

“Very straight,” Carlton said dryly. 

Shawn licked his lips and sighed. “That's so disappointing. All those times you threw me up against the wall, I thought we had something.”

“I just told you he was,” Juliet said. 

“You were wrong about Kyle—I told you he wanted me the second you brought him home—so there.” Shawn looked back at Carlton. “You gonna fuck Jules though? I can watch, right?”

Carlton looked at Juliet, nonplussed. She smiled. “You... want to watch me make love with your girlfriend?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Shawn breathed.

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Why not? If you can't join 'em, watch 'em. Or beat 'em. Or beat 'em off.” He grinned. “I've heard it both ways.”

Juliet stood behind Shawn and caressed the back of his head. When he looked at her, she smiled again. “You're in my spot,” she said gently.

“You're a Lassie hog,” he said, but then he finally got up.

“He's _my_ guest. No, sit in the chair.” She guided Shawn away from the other end of the couch and to the armchair. “You're making Carlton uncomfortable and he might leave,” she said quietly. “I'm sorry you couldn't stay with Kyle tonight, but we were supposed to be alone. Now sit over here and be quiet, can you do that right now?”

“I can do _lots_ of things.” Shawn wobbled where he stood and she pushed on his shoulder until he sat in the chair. 

“If you're rude to my guest I'll put you to bed,” she said firmly. “You can stay if you obey. Say it.”

“I can stay.”

“ _If_ you obey,” she persisted. “Say it, Shawn.”

“That's so hot,” he said longingly. “You smell fruity. Can I bite your hair?”

“No. Tell me you're going to be good or you have to go to bed.”

“It would be _good_ to go to bed.”

“Okay.” She reached for his hand.

He put both hands up and leaned back into the chair. “No, no, not alone, I want to stay out here. I'll be good and quiet and do what you say.”

She leaned forward and took his chin in one hand, making him look at her face. “You're not allowed to touch Carlton unless he says you can.”

Shawn stuck out his lower lip, and when she raised her eyebrows, he relented. “I know, I won't, I'm just going to sit here and watch you touch him.”

“Good.” She leaned a little closer and kissed him. He tried to put his hands in her hair but she gently pushed him back. He subsided, and she gave him a smile before turning back to Carlton and going directly to his lap. She sank down on him, knowing she was blocking his view to Shawn, and leaned forward until her breasts were almost pressed against his chin, his hands resting lightly on her hips. “Is it okay if Shawn stays?” she asked him quietly. “If that's a deal-breaker I can send him to the bedroom. He's smashed and he'll probably fall asleep in ten minutes anyway.” She wiggled on his legs and felt him arch up slightly. 

“If he's that drunk he shouldn't be left alone,” Carlton said reluctantly, sparing a generous glance for her rack.

“He really does just want to watch, and he can stay over there and be quiet.”

He hesitated again and then nodded. “All right.”

She smiled again. “Good.”


	2. Watch This

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Soundtrack: "Switch 625", by Def Leppard

O'Hara pulled her top off, _finally_ exposing the breasts that had pressed against him and caused him to turn into straining, painful concrete. They were perfect—even nicer than he'd imagined—and he cupped them while glancing up at her eyes to make sure it was all right. She licked her lips and leaned forward, pressing them into his hands, and he gently squeezed one while brushing the nipple of the other.

“Mmmm,” she breathed in his ear. “That's nice. I love your hands.”

“You are... so beautiful,” he said, looking up into her eyes helplessly. She bent her neck and kissed him again, both of her hands on his shoulders for leverage as she ground down on his lap. He grunted and put one hand back on her hip but kept the other one on her small, hard nipple. When she sighed his name, he brought the nipple to his mouth and ran his tongue over it, his hand tightening on her hip and her sweet-smelling hair falling all around his face.

“You're so hard,” she observed, squeezing the outsides of his thighs with her own. “Would you like me to suck your big, hard cock?”

He tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. He cleared it, trying to seem nonchalant, but the corners of her mouth were turning up and then she licked her lips very slowly. “Yes, please,” he said, almost croaking. She kissed him again and then began to slither her body down, unbuttoning his shirt and kissing down his neck, chest, stomach, trouser line. She was on her knees, pressing her face into the bulge at his crotch, and then she put her hands on his knees and nudged his legs apart, settling between them and quickly undoing his fly. 

When she pulled down his boxers and released his dick, Lassiter heard a low, “Nice,” from across the room and he looked up, surprised. He'd almost forgotten Spencer was there—so he _could_ actually sit and shut up for more than five seconds at a time. Actually, Spencer was _very_ still, all of his attention focused on O'Hara's hand, which was closing around Lassiter's cock and feeling it, moving up and down incredibly slowly. Lassiter turned his own attention back to his lap, wanting to again forget about the other person in the room.

Which Spencer then caused to fall apart by choosing that moment to throw his arm into the air. “I have a question!” he announced.

O'Hara turned to look at him; she didn't let go of Lassiter's dick, but stopped moving her hand back and forth, instead gently squeezing her fingers. “What is it?”

“Not for you.”

Lassiter looked at him warily. “What?”

“Can I sit next to you and watch her?”

“Shawn,” O'Hara said cautiously.

“I will be _so_ good,” he promised. “I just want a better seat. I can't really see from back here.”

She looked at Lassiter. “It's up to you.”

He hesitated—these two were so fucking _weird_ —and then he motioned to the expanse of uninhabited sofa. “You can sit there if you can you stay quiet.”

“Shhhh,” Spencer promised further, putting a finger across his lips. He got up from the chair and then he flopped onto the couch—in the middle instead of on the other end—but no part of him touched Lassiter. He thought that was probably good enough, as long as O'Hara started moving her h—yes. Very good enough.

.

Juliet spent several minutes running one hand over the impressive penis before her, each finger squeezing in succession, then lightly rubbing her palm over the head. Carlton let out a slow breath, watching her tease the slit, wetting the end of one finger in the clear fluid oozing out.

“You bitch,” Shawn said softly. 

She looked back at him innocently. “Me?” She poked her second finger at the slit and brought both an inch away, gleaming.

“Don't play with me.” Shawn's voice was quieter, lower, his eyes focused on hers. 

Her fingers came toward her lips, stopping just short of them. “Oh, do you want this?”

“You know I do.”

She glanced at Carlton's face, which was still as he watched her—still until his eyes flicked to Shawn's face, taking in how hungry he looked. She felt his dick twitch in her hand and decided that she hadn't been wrong after all about some of the looks she'd seen pass between them, before Carlton had picked up and transferred away. She took the chance and held her fingers out, thinking that she'd very likely know for sure in the next thirty seconds. Shawn was off the end of the cushion in one, on his knees next to her, holding her wrist in both of his hands and sucking her first two fingers into his mouth. Carlton's mouth dropped open as Shawn licked the wetness from her fingers with his eyes fluttering closed. He moaned softly and Juliet turned back to Carlton, very serious. 

“He wants to _so_ badly,” she whispered.

“I noticed,” Carlton said slowly, watching Shawn suck her fingers.

“But I know what 'straight' means,” Shawn said. “It means no dick for me. Which is so, so...” He seemed to think about it for a moment, sucking Juliet's fingers again. “Sad.”

“I... did not know you were into that, Spencer.”

Shawn finally released Juliet's hand and grinned. “I'm a people person,” he explained, wiping his lips with the back of one hand. “I am as bi as a fly. I think. Are flies bi?” he asked her. “Or do they just go bye? I need to ask Gus.”

Juliet wiped her slobbery fingers on her jeans. “Right now?”

“No, I'll still be curious about it tomorrow.” He looked thoughtful. “Fly sex. Buzzzzzzzzz. Sounds vibratey.”

She poked her boyfriend in the chest affectionately. “He's actually kind of a cock slut,” she told Carlton.

“Do it again?” Shawn asked, looking at Carlton's dick meaningfully. She looked at him for permission, and when he didn't protest, she slowly rubbed one finger over the hole in the end of his cock again, making him breathe harder. Shawn reached for her hand but she batted him down and then stuck her finger in his mouth and rubbed it over his tongue. He closed his eyes and made a hungry sound, and Juliet didn't miss the way Carlton's eyes widened, or that he was still as hard as a rock. Yep.

“Shawn has _always_ wanted to make you come,” she told him, looking directly into his eyes. “Is it okay if he has more than a taste?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then looked at Shawn suspiciously. “Just you,” he said after a few seconds.

“Okay,” she agreed. 

She removed her finger from Shawn's mouth and guided him back so that he was still kneeling but resting on his heels, then rose up on her knees to get a better angle, keeping Carlton's eyes with hers as she leaned forward. His lips parted and he breathed in a gasp when she finally put her mouth around him. She grinned up at him, licking both her lips and the head of his dick. Shawn started tapping her shoulder, quickly becoming more insistent, and when she reluctantly took her mouth off Carlton and looked at him, Shawn put both hands on her face and shoved his tongue into her mouth. She tightened her grip on Carlton's dick and started stroking him, letting Shawn taste her, and when he let her go she laid her other hand on his cheek and gently pushed him back again. He licked his lips and made a small whimpering noise, but he leaned back with both hands resting on his thighs. She saw that he was also incredibly hard, but true to his word he was being good, trying to be quiet and still, so that nothing would freak Carlton out too much. She ducked her head down a little and applied her tongue to the underside of his balls and began slowly working her way up.

.

Lassiter realized Spencer was looking at him—at his face, this time. O'Hara was sucking him so good now that he was finding it harder and harder to not pant, to not lose control and thrust up into her soft mouth. “What?” he breathed.

“Okay if I stay right here?” Spencer asked, his voice very quiet.

“I... suppose, yes.”

“I won't do anything, I'm being good.” Spencer put both of his hands up. “Can I touch _her_ , or is that weird? I can never tell. Sexy things aren't weird.”

O'Hara released the dick in her mouth, but squeezed it again with her hand and rubbed her palm over the head, causing several delicious shivers to roll down Lassiter's spine. “Sometimes they are to other people,” she said.

“I know, that's why I was making sure I wasn't too close.” He looked at Lassiter and put a hand to the side of his mouth, dropping his voice. “I have the gay cooties,” he confided, and winked. 

Lassiter looked back and forth between them for a few seconds, his eyes going once to his erection between O'Hara's hands. He finally shrugged, at a loss, and turned his palms up. “This is already one of the weirdest nights of my life,” he said. “I'm not going to tell you that you can't touch your own girlfriend. Just...”

“I know, I'm not good enough for you.”

“I never said that.” When Spencer met his eyes again, his eyebrows slightly raised, Lassiter frowned a little. “It's true, though.”

Instead of getting mad or offended, Spencer snorted laughter. “I know,” he said. “I'm being-have. Circle, circle, dot, dot, now you have your cootie shot,” he recited, looking proud.

Lassiter ignored that last. “You're _behaving_?“

“I've heard it both ways.”

“No, you haven't.”

“Have so. Elementary school, 1987.“ He looked thoughtful for a moment. “S'also where I got the deets on the cootie inoculation, but back then we mostly used it for the Rander twins and Gus's sister.”

Lassiter looked at O'Hara to see her giving him a contemplative look. “What?”

“What you did say,” she said softly. “You said, 'very', not, 'completely'.”

He didn't remember for a second, and when he did, he hesitated too long in replying. “I did,” he agreed at last. 

“Very what?” Spencer asked. “Very, very... contrary?”

“Shhh,” O'Hara told him. She looked back at Lassiter and raised her eyebrows. “Completely?”

“I... O'Hara—”

She held up a finger at him. “ _Juliet_. We are not partners any more—”

“—at least not _police_ partners,” Spencer broke in.

“—and I think we're all familiar here.”

Too familiar, he thought, and glanced toward the door, to his jacket hanging on the peg. There was no question that he shouldn't be here any more, but suddenly he found it difficult to say that, or to move, when she leaned forward again and nearly swallowed him. He hadn't gotten to answer—hadn't _had_ to answer—and thought that was probably good, because it wasn't just his resolve to let her take control that was slipping.

.

“Jules, you have such pretty hair,” Shawn breathed, watching her golden blonde head bobbing up and down. “It's almost as nice as mine.”

She ignored him and dipped down again, taking in as much of Carlton's dick as she could. He twitched and she felt more than heard a soft moan. 

“And your hair is soft.” Shawn was watching her back up slowly, his eyes fixed on her lips as she swirled the head around and licked the underside, eliciting a louder moan. 

Shawn touched the back of her head, his palm resting on the curve of her skull, then he gave her a small push, just a little pressure with his fingers. She went down again and Shawn kept his hand on her hair, making another soft whimpering sound as she let him guide her. When his touch was light, she licked and sucked at the head of Carlton's dick, and when he pressed harder, she went down all the way. He continued to push steadily, setting up a slow rhythm and backing off for twenty seconds or so at a time, helping to build the pressure she felt mounting. 

She knew she was somewhat of a proxy right now, but that was okay—Shawn really had wanted to do this for almost longer than she had, and he was at least as good at it, if not better, having known what it felt like from the other end. He tended to be a little more enthusiastic as well: she did enjoy giving head, but semen was a little gross, and she preferred to finish her partner either with her hand or by riding the literal ever-loving fuck out of him. Shawn, on the other hand, was a swallower, and it wound him up so much to make someone come in his mouth that he would almost be ready to explode himself. He would even greedily French someone if they finished him orally... she had a theory that this was one of the main reasons he ate so much pineapple, and could vouch for its difference. She knew that if Carlton did come in her mouth, she would let it happen, and then she would give what was left after her initial swallow to Shawn, who would hold her face and gently suck on her tongue until she could no longer stand not being on top of him.

.

Lassiter found himself looking at Spencer again, and he told himself that it was just that he just found it weird that he—they—were into things like this, whatever this was. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back... and then he realized that his eyes were open again, and that they were not even focused on the woman sucking his cock like there was no tomorrow—which there wasn't, because he was leaving and had no reasons to come back. He saw that Spencer's eyes were dark and his pupils dilated, his lips parted and his entire concentration on his girlfriend's mouth. He licked his lips very slowly and stroked the back of her head, but didn't move otherwise. Lassiter's eyes dropped to his lips and stayed there for several moments until he realized O'Ha— _Juliet_ —had slowed considerably. He looked down at her and saw her eyebrows raised. She looked at Spencer and then back at him and raised them higher, a clear, if silent, repeat of her earlier question.

Lassiter found his lips very dry and swiped his dry tongue across them. One night, last night, one time, first and only time. He trusted _her_ , at least. Like the weird night had to try much harder to be much weirder. He knew he could sharpen up if need be, but he was finding it hard to let go of the sexy, muzzy feeling the alcohol and O'Hara had incited. So what if he'd thought about it before, maybe even wanted it before... no one needed to know, and these two clearly wouldn't find it strange. 

“Spencer,” he said softly.

“Mmm?” He was looking at O'Hara, and he blinked after a second in which no one moved. Juliet looked at him and then tilted her head toward Lassiter, and Spencer glanced up at him and raised his eyebrows.

“You...” He hesitated again, completely unsure how to proceed. “You actually...” He looked at O'Hara for help.

“He wants to know if you actually want to suck him off,” she translated softly.

“Of course,” he said at once. “Who _doesn't_? They're wrong. Wrong wrong wrong wroonnnnggg,” he began to sing like the Big Ben chime, shaking his head to get the right vibrato on the last word.

“Then shut up and do it,” Lassiter said, annoyed.

Spencer shut his mouth so fast that his teeth clicked together loudly. He looked up, surprised, and then he glanced at Juliet questioningly. She smiled and nodded, leaned forward to kiss him, and then scooted out of the way. Spencer looked at Lassiter again. “I can?” His voice was hushed, his eyes wide and gleaming, like it was Christmas.

“Uh... yeah. If you want to,” he said quietly. 

“Fuck yeah I want to,” Spencer breathed. He licked his lips again, but didn't move yet. “Is it really okay?”

.

When Carlton nodded slowly, Shawn broke into a huge grin and looked at Juliet again; he put both hands on her face and kissed her, then moved his mouth to her ear and whispered, “Make me come when his dick is in my mouth—it won't take very much.”

“Sure.” She nodded and leaned back again as he moved closer to the couch, and it was her turn to watch.

Shawn was good, especially with guys who had never—or hardly—been with other guys; he was careful, he was charming, he was confident without being too pushy, and he loved all kinds of sex so much that he was never shy or hesitant, only eager and alluring. His winning smile and easy chatter were disarming, his sense of humor was irresistible, and once he had been given permission to touch someone, anyone, his hands were gentle and sure, his gaze riveting, and his mouth... his everlasting mouth was always going to be one of the best parts of him.

Carlton tensed when Shawn laid a hand on his knee, but Shawn smiled easily, lightly dragging his fingers up his thigh until he reached his hip. He stared at Carlton's cock for a moment, looked back up to meet his eyes, and licked his lips again. “Nice,” he repeated softly. “I already know it tastes good. If you need me to stop, just say so and I will, okay?”

“All right.” Carlton looked at Juliet uncertainly, and she nodded solemnly. He looked back down, his eyes tracking Shawn's other hand, which came forward slowly and wrapped around his dick, loosely at first, and then squeezing and stroking. Shawn's neck and back bent down and he rose up on his knees a little, and Juliet watched Carlton's face as Shawn sucked him all the way down, both hands holding him. Carlton's mouth dropped open and then he moaned twice, one an “Oh!” and the other an “Mmmmm...”

Shawn echoed the “Mmmmm” as he worked his way back up, his tongue lapping the slit. His head moved up and down, a little side to side, going down fast and coming back up slowly. Carlton's eyes closed and he began to pant, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Shawn noticed this—he noticed everything—and let go of his hip, sliding his fingers down Carlton's wrist and working his palm open, entwining their fingers even as his lips closed tight around just the head of his current favorite dick and he rubbed it all over with his tongue. His other hand still circled around the base of it to hold it still and allow him to alternate sucking and pumping. 

Juliet let him go on for just a little while longer—when Shawn was drunk and really got going, he would swallow someone's cock and keep going even after he'd exploded down his throat, sulking about being pulled away—and then she moved into him, molding herself behind him, her breasts pushed into his back and her arms going around him. Shawn made a needy sound and when she glanced at Carlton's face she knew she didn't have long. She quickly undid Shawn's belt and let it hang open, popping the button and zipper of his jeans and getting him into her hand in seconds: he was _so_ hard, and he started to twitch and tremble the instant her fingers squeezed him. She kissed the back of his neck, starting to stroke him in time to his head bobbing. His hips jerked, trying to fuck her hand, and she used her other arm to hold his lower half still while his head sped up. She looked at Carlton's face again and saw him looking back at her. _Shawn_ , she mouthed at him.

“Shawn,” he whispered, and then Shawn was making high-pitched panting noises. She squeezed the head of his dick again and he came, his entire body spasming. She used the semen as a lubricant and continued to stroke him while his hips bucked and he squirmed, and then Carlton's eyes squeezed closed and he tightened the grip on Shawn's one hand while the other went to the back of his head. Shawn made a small choking sound she knew well. She let him go on until his rocking slowed and Carlton opened his eyes, and then Juliet moved a little in order to kiss the side of Shawn's face and pull him back. He sat back on his heels, dazed, and almost fell back over. She caught him and he laughed, wiping his mouth with his forearm. 

“So good,” he mumbled, grinning, and then made eye contact with Carlton again. “Aren't I good?”

Juliet grabbed her top from the floor and wiped her hand on it. “You were very good,” she told him. “You were very quiet when you were supposed to be.” She kissed him on the lips, not tasting semen because he would have swallowed it all before wiping his mouth of saliva. “But now you need to move so I get a turn.”

“Don't wanna.” He laid his head on Carlton's knee and yawned. “Shawn goes sleepy-bye now; Lassie is _so_ cozy.”

“Shawn, who's being a 'Lassie hog' now?” Juliet asked pointedly.

“I am.” He grinned doofily and then leaned forward and began planting kisses along Carlton's inner thighs, working his way up to his stomach and lightly running his hands along his ribs. He looked up and met his eyes. “Next time you _are_ going to fuck me.”

“I am?” he asked softly.

“Yes please.” He kissed his stomach again. “ _Please_.”

Carlton watched him for a long moment, unsure, and then he looked at Juliet again. “Next time?”

She smiled. “You're very welcome to stay with us if you come back to town.”

“I... see.” He seemed to be dazed, still breathing a little too hard and blinking too often.

“Shawn,” Juliet called softly, waiting for him to remove his face from Carlton's abs. “Shawn, move or I'm going to move you.”

“That sounds hot,” he mumbled.

“It won't be.” She patted the end of the couch. “Move up here and you can watch.”

“Okay.” He held his hands out to her. “Help me up.”

She was almost sure Shawn would be asleep by the time she'd gotten a condom from the bathroom drawer, but instead he had wormed his way underneath one of Carlton's arms, nuzzling his head into the hollow of his shoulder, and was dragging his fingers through his chest hair, saying something incoherent about a comb, “little bitty braids”, and licorice. Or maybe it all tied in together; there were still some times in which she honestly couldn't tell. Carlton was giving him an exasperated look, but his arm was relaxed around Shawn's shoulders and he wasn't trying to push him off. She stood in front of the couch and considered her options, and then she stuck the condom in her teeth, undid her pants, and stepped out of them. She was pleased to see that Shawn had shut up and both men were completely focused on her, so she cocked a hip, ran both hands through her long blonde hair and shook it out, and licked her lips very, very slowly.

“Move, Shawn,” she said. 

“You didn't say 'Simon Says',” he protested at once.

“I says.”

“I'll call you 'Simon' if you want,” he said slowly, “but that'll be really weird the next time I meet a real Simon.”

Juliet attempted twice to remove Shawn from Carlton's side and decided he was now in his Chinese finger-trap state of drunkenness; the more he attached himself to someone, the harder he held on... not to mention he gave a surprisingly eloquent argument on the point that he was now in a prime position to stare her “right in the nips”. Carlton didn't seem to mind, especially once she managed to nudge Shawn aside enough to put her knee down and actually get into his lap, putting said nips into his face, the smooth material of her panties the only thing between them. His right arm remained relaxed, slung around Shawn's neck, but his left hand gently rubbed and caressed her right breast, making her grind down on him again. Shawn helped with her left one, at first sliding the tips of his fingers deliciously against her hard nipple, then murmuring, “She likes this, Lassie,” and applying his tongue to it. Carlton took the lesson well, and before very long he was hard again and she was nearly frantic to get the condom on him and slam him inside her. 

When she finally sunk down on him, he shoved both hands into her hair and breathed into her ear that she was beautiful, that she was amazing, the best detective he'd ever worked with. She couldn't help laughing a little—it was, after all, a huge compliment from him—and he understood, putting one hand on her hip again and guiding her. She realized that Shawn had backed off when Carlton had let him go and he was leaning against the back of the couch, his eyes half-closed and unfocused, but still watching them. She set both of her hands on the wooden back of the couch, using it for leverage as she rocked her hips faster and faster. She was almost positive they came at exactly the same time, because she squeezed her eyes shut and let go of the world at the same moment he put both arms around her and held her close.

“That was awesome,” Shawn said slowly after a moment, his voice slightly slurred. “I need some pancakes, like, right now. Who's for pancakes? Or ice cream. I's cream, you scream? Well, you already screamed, Jules. That _was_ hot. Judges give you all ten.”

Juliet carefully removed the condom and dropped it into the trash; then she got back into Carlton's lap, but with her legs going across his instead of to either side. He supported her back and she laid her head on his shoulder. “I'm not making you any food until morning,” she told Shawn. “If you want ice cream, get some, just remember to put it back in the freezer.” She gave him the sternest look she could manage after such an orgasm. “If I find it in the dishwasher again, I swear to god.” She looked at Carlton, who was suspiciously quiet. He could be very taciturn, and of course she'd never slept with him before, but it would be very bad if he was having a case of guilts—or worse, regrets. He had on a small frown, just a line on his forehead that indicated he was thinking very hard. “Carlton?”

“Are you alive in there, Lassie?” Shawn asked. “Do we need to get Timmy?”

“Ha ha.” Carlton looked at Juliet. She was hugely relieved to see a lack of regret in him, though he did seem to have the normal amount of uncertainty after having sex with a couple for the first time.

“Can you stay?” she asked. When he blinked and started to look doubtful, she put a finger across his lips. “Please, stay. We really want you to—we'll have breakfast in the morning and take you to the airport.”

“My flight doesn't leave until afternoon,” he said slowly.

“Then you can stay longer,” Shawn said matter-of-factly. He sat up suddenly. “You guys shook the couch really hard and now I may ralph. Don't consider that part of your review.”

Juliet pointed to the bathroom. “Go.”

He relaxed again. “No, never mind, I'm good.” He looked around. “Where did my ice cream go?”

“You didn't get any yet.”

“What? That's a vital part of my life I'm missing.” Shawn stood up and walked toward the kitchen as if on a high sea.

Juliet sighed and kissed Carlton's neck. “Going to stay?” she asked. “Our bed is a king and will easily sleep three, although Shawn will probably be all over the place.” She kissed him again. “I know you're finding this weird, but you really don't have to.”

“I don't know,” he said slowly. “It's a lot... Juliet.”

“I know.” There was silence for a moment and she found herself drowsy and content, loving the feel of his hand stroking a small patch of skin on her thigh. There was the sound of silverware in the kitchen, then Shawn mumbling to himself and snickering. “Are you okay with Shawn?” she asked after another moment, meaning, of course, everything that had taken place between them. 

Carlton seemed to try out a dozen possible answers for this, and then he finally shrugged, not angrily or guiltily, just unable to come up with how he really felt or unable to put it into words. “He's... fine,” he said finally.

“Good,” she said softly, because it was, and hopefully he could see that.

There was too long a stretch of silence from the kitchen, and when Juliet realized she hadn't heard the freezer or the cupboard where the bowls were kept, she reluctantly excused herself from Carlton's lap and went to check on Shawn. 

She found him sleeping underneath the kitchen table with one spoon in his mouth and another in one hand, and she put a hand over her mouth, smiling. He was on his side and not unresponsive when she tried to wake him—he didn't open his eyes or reply coherently when she shook him, but he didn't seem to be in any danger—so she decided to leave him there. She asked Carlton if he wanted to join her in the bedroom, just the two of them. He looked tempted, but ended up shaking his head and opting for the couch. She didn't want to push him and so she just kissed him once more and bade him goodnight, hoping that he would still be okay with all that had happened when they woke.


	3. Waffling

  
_Straddle the line, it's discord and rhyme  
I howl and I whine, I'm after you_  
—Duran Duran, “Hungry Like The Wolf”

  
When Lassiter woke up, he knew immediately where he was. The entirely of the last night's festivities went through his head in a matter of seconds, which caused two very strong reactions; one was almost expected, and the other not. His heart sped up and his face became warm with embarrassment—what had he _done_? With... with _both_ of them?!—and then he started to get hard again. He tried to brush it off; it simply happened sometimes in the morning, that was all. But then he glanced down at his bare stomach, remembering Spencer kissing him there and asking to be fucked... which he could now admit (to himself, stone sober) that it was possible that he had, on occasion, considered doing just that. Maybe more than considered—maybe he wanted to. Almost. A little. Not likely that it could ever happen, that it _would_ ever happen... those were facts, Jack.

But then, hadn't he had this same run of thoughts almost two years ago? Something about taking O'Hara to the boardwalk to teach her how to blend into the crowd to come up quick on a dodgy witness... they'd run across Spencer by himself that day, perched on a railing overlooking the pier. It was a bright, hot day, and his steady flow of instruction (Remember to keep your head up and your face blank, O'Hara, your eyes always moving behind the dark sunglasses as you move in the crowd— _no, not darting to the first two open buttons of her shirt_ —The glasses are your best friend sometimes, don't forget that) was broken by a cheerful hail. Juliet had recognized Spencer and smiled, and he'd grinned back at her and waved, sticking a huge popsicle all the way into his mouth so that both hands could hoist himself back onto the ground. Lassiter didn't remember what any of them had said, only that he'd chivied her along as soon as he could so that they could get back to their official business, but not before Spencer had flipped his own sunglasses to the top of his head and slurped juice dribbles from his bright pink and blue treat... and then he'd caught Lassiter's gaze and held it for longer than was strictly necessary. Hadn't he already been watching when those hazel eyes flicked over to him? Hadn't it taken all of his control, a few weeks prior to that day, to keep his voice steady when he demanded Spencer get off his lap a split second before the reason why popped up and said howdy?

Hadn't he moved to the other side of the country before certain questions could gain insistence and necessitate answers? 

No, this erection wasn't simply caused by the time of day or by his dreams. Dreams of Juliet O'Hara and her long hair, her round hips, her soft lips. Spencer's lips had been soft, too, and he had been far, far less irritating when he wasn't insisting that he was having visions or speaking with the recently dead. And when he was on his knees, making those _wanting_ noises. Lassiter put both hands over his face for several moments, and then he managed to push everything to the side; it was still in his mental In basket, but so was some coffee, and that basket could easily be buried with new memos from real life. He sat up and looked around. 

O'Hara was there, perched on the arm of the chair and tilting her head down so that her eyes looked up at him from under her lashes. “Good morning,” she said softly.

He realized that his shorts were dramatically tented and he sat up quickly. “I'm sorry. Morning. Um, where's your restroom?”

She pointed to a hallway. “The door on the left. I've got coffee going, if you'd like some.”

“Thank you.” He spent too long in the bathroom, wetting a cloth to clean himself up as best as he could and then studying the marks on his neck. He'd been able to set his shorts and trousers to rights, but couldn't find his shirt—which was odd, because he was almost certain he'd gone to sleep with it open, but still on his back.

When he returned to the living room, there were sounds in the kitchen but no voices. He slowly made his way to the doorway to find O'Hara taking a waffle iron from a cupboard and setting it on a counter near a bowl and a few baking implements: eggs, flour, sugar, butter, the like. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I poured you some coffee at the table; go ahead and have a seat.”

He didn't move, looking around and thinking that it was, for some reason, too quiet. “Where's Spencer?” he asked finally.

She snorted and gestured to the floor. “Still asleep.”

Lassiter into the room and saw Shawn Spencer curled into a ball around one of the table legs with a suspicious-looking pillow. “Is that my shirt?” he asked incredulously. “I fell asleep wearing that. How in the hell...”

She looked, and then she rolled her eyes and sighed. “I've learned not to ask. I've already tried to wake him up, though, and he's still pretty asleep—I'm sure he's going to be seriously hungover for a while. It doesn't usually last long, but he'll probably whine for a good hour. Do you need your shirt?” Her eyes grazed him and he stood up straighter. “Are you cold?”

“No.” He looked away from the intensity in her eyes, not sure what to do with it yet—especially considering the other information he didn't want to examine right now—and he pulled a chair from the table to sit down.

Juliet hummed while she turned on the iron to warm up and mixed a batter. Lassiter added sugar and creamer to his coffee and sipped, telling himself that he didn't feel at home in this small kitchen with its ridiculous Angry Birds magnets and the Spongebob oven mitt and a folder labeled SPBD on the counter.

“POISON!”

Lassiter realized stupid Spencer's stupid phone was going off, some moronic rap about a big butt and a smile that he thought he remembered first hating in the early nineties. Figured. 

“Sorry, Carlton, I'm pretty sure Shawn and Gus are supposed to be meeting with someone today.” O'Hara reached into Spencer's jeans pocket for it, slapping at his hands when he finally moved and mumbled something about Guster. “Hi, Gus,” she answered. “No, he's asleep. Okay, I'll try. See you then.” She flipped the phone closed and set it on the counter, and then she ran her hand through Spencer's hair. “Shawn,” she called softly. “Time to get up.”

“No,” he said into the shirt he had wrapped in his arms.

“Yes. Gus is on his way over; you need to wake up now. Do you want some coffee?”

When he didn't reply or move, O'Hara shrugged at Lassiter. “Would you like some breakfast? Gus will be here in fifteen minutes and he'll make him get up then if he hasn't on his own. Unless you need to go right away?”

“No.” Lassiter looked down into his coffee cup to avoid the amusement in her eyes. “Breakfast would be nice, thank you.”

It was quiet for a few more minutes while she added prepared batter to the iron and it hissed. Lassiter noticed a black cat come into the room; it sniffed the air, and then it decided to investigate who was on the floor.

Spencer smirked when the cat's whiskers touched his cheeks. “S'at?” he asked.

O'Hara looked down at him. “That's just Siddy,” she said, returning her attention to the waffles and using a fork to remove a golden brown disc from the iron.

“Siddy the kitty,” he crooned, with his eyes still closed, as the cat walked away to check its dish. “Also li'l boy cat. Like the puuuuurrrrder.”

Lassiter looked at O'Hara, who was carefully pouring more white goo into the steaming iron. “Is he awake?”

“Sounds like it. Are you awake, Shawn?”

“S'bright,” he told the floor.

“That means yes, but he doesn't want to open his eyes,” she explained.

Lassiter gave the pile on the floor a closer look, and then he made a face. “Spencer, you're drooling on my shirt.”

“Nuh uh.”

“I can see it.”

“S'not your shirt, s'my friend.”

Juliet glanced over from the counter, where she was stirring more ingredients together. “Shawn, that _is_ Carlton's shirt. Give it back.”

“No,” he mumbled again, and he hugged it closer. “S'my friend. I will name him George and I will hug him and pet him and squeeeeeeze him.”

O'Hara sighed. “I could get you one of Shawn's,” she told Lassiter. “Or he'll give it up when Gus gets here.” She slid a plate with a waffle on it and a fork in front of him. It smelled very inviting, and when she set two kinds of syrup down, his stomach rumbled.

“I don't think one of his would fit me,” he said reluctantly. He didn't want to be an ungracious, but he was, in fact, a little chilly, and he thought it would be weird to eat breakfast in someone else's kitchen without his shirt on.

.

Juliet could tell that Carlton wanted Shawn to give up his shirt sooner rather than later—hopefully just that he wanted to put it on, not that he was getting weirded out by Shawn snuggling with it, and she went out to the living room to get one of the throw pillows from the couch. She came back to the kitchen and knelt down next to Shawn, shaking him a little. “Trade, Shawn. Carlton needs his shirt, but you can have this pillow.”

“Which one?” he mumbled, without opening his eyes.

“The yellow one.”

“Can I call it Mister Esmerelda Highpants?”

“Sure.”

“You shoulda said no, that's a stupid name.”

Juliet sighed. She had long patience, especially after having lived with Shawn for so long, but drunk-Shawn and hungover-Shawn were special cases. “Fine,” she said. “This is Fiona. Give me Carlton's shirt.”

Shawn held out the shirt at last, his forehead never leaving the floor. “Bye George,” he said, and then he wrapped his arms around the pillow Juliet tried to tuck under his face. 

Juliet started to offer the shirt, but then she hesitated when she saw the wet spot from Shawn drooling as he was asleep. “Sorry,” she said, getting a paper towel and starting to dab at it.

“It's fine,” Carlton said. “I can still put it on.”

She was doubtful, but she gave it to him, and as soon as he'd slid his arms into the sleeves she could tell that he immediately felt better. Good—it was probably just that he was uncomfortable being half-dressed. He added strawberry syrup to his waffle and started to eat, and she smiled, thinking that Gus loved her waffles—or any waffles, really—and she got started making a few more.

.

There was a knock at the door and O'Hara glanced at her waffle iron, which had just started to hiss and steam. “That's probably Gus,” she told Lassiter. “If it's not, and this starts to burn, can you take care of it?”

“Of course.” He stood to refill his coffee cup and leaned against the counter for a moment, listening as she opened the door.

“Good morning, Juliet.”

“Hi, Gus. Shawn and I have a guest,” she continued quickly. Lassiter now understood this to mean someone outside the relationship to have sex with, and evidently so did Guster, which meant that they did this a lot. He rubbed his forehead, thinking that he was going to spend a month back in Georgia trying to convince himself that this had really happened. (Never minding _why_ it had happened.) O'Hara would surely be back in a moment to handle her iron, so he sat back down to get back to his breakfast.

“...oh,” Guster said, after a long pause. “Um... is Shawn ready?”

“No, he's hungover and still glued to the floor in the kitchen. You might have better luck getting him up.”

When they walked through the doorway, Guster's feet came to a complete halt when he saw who was sitting at the table. “Lassiter? What are you—” His mouth snapped closed.

“Guster.” Lassiter sipped his coffee. Guster looked at O'Hara quickly, but she just smiled.

“Would you like some breakfast?” she asked. “I was thinking of making some _big, greasy, drippy sausages_ ,” she called pointedly to the heap of Spencer on the floor.

“Noooooooo,” he whined, and pulled the pillow over his head. “Screw you, I will _not_ ralph.”

“You'll feel better if you do,” she tried, and then she shook her head. “I'm really making waffles. Gus?”

He considered, clearly wanting to say yes, but also clearly uncomfortable with Lassiter and the implications in the room. “No thanks. Shawn? Shawn! Don't make me put a sausage in your face.” Spencer burst into laughter as Guster realized what he'd said and rolled his eyes. “I'm not kidding, Shawn. If I have to make you run for the bathroom in order to get you up, I will.”

“Shut up, you'd be right behind me.” He pushed the pillow off his head but didn't make a move to sit up. “Ugh. Why does _daylight_.”

“ _Daylight_ is a time in which we do things.”

“ _Nighttime_ is a time in which I do _other things_. Special things. _Magnificent_ things. Right Lassie?”

Guster made a face. “I was talking about going to work and making enough money to pay off that ticket you got me when you made me park in the fire zone at that kindergarten,” he snapped. “You know we have a case to try to finish up today. It's your own fault you drank so much when you knew we had an appointment with a client this morning.” He nudged Spencer's unmoving back with the toe of his shoe. 

“Quit it Gus—I'll take your foot,” Spencer warned, though he made no attempt to do so.

“Don't think I won't dump the ice tray on you again, Shawn.”

“Are you sure you don't want a waffle, Gus?” Juliet asked, opening the waffle iron and inspecting the newest one's edges. “We have whipped cream.”

Guster looked as if he were about to say yes, and then he glanced at Lassiter again, winced, and shook his head. “No—thank you, but we need to get going. Shawn, you have exactly fifteen seconds before I put peanut butter in your hair. The chunky kind.”

“No!” Spencer pushed himself into a sitting position, and then he cringed and rubbed at his eyes. “What about a shower, Gus? You have no idea where I've been, and you're entirely too eager to put me in our clients' mouths.”

Guster rolled his eyes. “Fine, you have fifteen _minutes_ before I get the peanut butter. I'm going to run down the street and get you an energy shot, and if you're not ready when I get back, it's Skippy time.”

“Choosy moms choose Jif,” Spencer told him seriously, then grinned. “Gus? Gus, guess what I did?”

“What?” Guster asked warily. Spencer flailed an arm and pointed dramatically at Lassiter, who calmly added more syrup to his waffle. Guster's eyes widened and he made another face. “Shawn, I don't need to know about that! We've been through this! I _do not care_ who you and Juliet sleep with, so stop bragging!”

“I'm not bragging!” Spencer glanced at Lassiter and grinned. “Okay, I'm bragging. _Lassie_ , Gus. That's totally fifty points.”

Guster scoffed. “Bringing your total to negative fifty. I know you keep completely striking out with the girl who brought us her aunt's mysteriously moving stuffed rabbit case a week ago.”

“Can I help it if she's way too into wabbits?” Spencer was screwing his fists into his eyes again. “And I'll have you know my total is somewhere in the kra-gillions.”

“There's no points system, Shawn,” O'Hara corrected, setting her own plate and mug on the table. She took a seat and added some sugar to her tea. 

“Is that because you get so tired of being wrong?”

“Looks like it worked out well enough for you,” she said, meeting Lassiter's eyes and smiling again. He dropped his own to the congealing puddle of syrup on his plate.

Guster threw both arms into the air and then headed for the door. “You have thirteen minutes, Shawn!”

“But that's unlucky!” Spencer protested. The door slammed. “Gus!” He pouted for a second, and then seemed to realize something. “Gus, wait! I forgot to ask you about fly sex!”

“He's gone,” Juliet said. “Ask him when you're on your way to meet your client.”

“I might not remember.” He seemed genuinely worried, and then he thrust an arm toward her. “Quick, you have to write 'fly sex' on my hand.”

“But it'll come off when you have your shower. Speaking of which, you'd better hurry,” she told him sweetly. “I think he means it, and we have a full jar of peanut butter. There also might be some bacon grease leftover from breakfast yesterday.”

Spencer made a horrified face and turned his hand up, signifying 'stop'. “Seriously, Jules, I can't do this with you right now. If I'm going to smell like a sandwich, it has to be one that makes sense.”

“You mean there's actually something in your life that makes sense?” Lassiter asked him. He had been imagining Spencer doing his moronic 'psychic' thing, holding a hand to his forehead with the words “fly sex” printed on it. He couldn't imagine why in the world Guster would know about insect sex, and he didn't want to know.

“I take sandwiches _very_ seriously, Lassie.” Spencer held both hands out to him. “Help me up.”

Lassiter sighed and set his coffee cup down. He got up and held out a hand to Spencer, who grabbed it with both of his and hauled himself to his feet. He wobbled, and Lassiter held onto him for a second, letting go when he leaned against the counter.

Spencer watched him sit back down at the table. “When are you going back to Bananarama?” he asked suddenly.

Lassiter looked back up at him, confused. “Do you mean Alabama?”

Spencer waved this off. “They have cruel summers in Alabama, I can testify to that.”

“I'm going home to _Georgia_ today.”

“Also cruel summers. What time?”

“No, Shawn,” Juliet said. “You'd better go take your shower before Gus gets back. If he says you have a meeting, you need to get ready.”

“Easy for you to say. You have the day off, Lassie hog.”

She grabbed the maple syrup bottle and brandished it at him. “Call me a hog again,” she invited.

“Hassie log!” he chirped, and grinned.

“Carlton, would you be so kind as to open that cupboard behind you and get me the peanut butter?”

“Okay okay okay okay okay okay!” Spencer said. “Can I have a waffle?”

Juliet put the bottle down. “There's extra on the counter; you can take it to go when you're done.”

“Can I use your peachy shampoo?”

“Sure.”

“Here I go, off to get naked and wet,” he said, glancing between them. “Any takers?”

Juliet checked her watch. “Nine minutes.”

“Pfft, you know what I can do in nine minutes.”

“Is it washing your hair sixteen or seventeen times?”

Spencer pouted, then he blew a kiss at Lassiter and finally exited the kitchen. Lassiter shook his head at Juliet. “How does he not drive you _bugshit_?” he asked.

She shrugged, using the side of her fork to cut the last big section of waffle into four smaller bites. “He's fun and he makes me laugh.”

He frowned. “That's really... what makes you happy?”

“Lots of things make me happy,” she said seriously. “I love Shawn. He's really smart, and he _can_ be incredibly focused. He cares so much about everyone in his life, even if he doesn't usually show it in conventional ways. It's true that a lot of the time he's not very mature, but that's actually taught me quite a bit of patience, and he's incredible at what he does. You saw that before you moved—don't tell me that you didn't.”

Lassiter shrugged, unable to do that and not wanting to agree with it at the same time. “Is he so incredible that he can't stick to sleeping with just you?”

She looked both indignant and amused. “Says the man who came in his mouth last night.”

“Well... leaving that aside,” he went on quickly. “I mean, how does one even get into that sort of thing? I think in most relationships that's called cheating.”

“I'm sure it is, but our relationship isn't most,” she said lightly. “Are you interested in the specifics or are you just being judgmental?”

He thought about it. “A little of both, I guess.”

“Well, points for honesty.” O'Hara sipped her tea, and then she set down the cup and folded her hands near her plate. “The bottom line is that Shawn and I are together in a relationship: we live together, and we love and trust each other. But we're also allowed to have sex with other people, provided the very best of common sense is applied and no one does anything too crazy.”

“And you define that by...?”

“A case-by-case basis, usually. Last night, for example: Shawn was going to spend the night with Kyle, a friend of ours that both of us have been with before. He's married, but his wife doesn't mind if he occasionally sleeps with other people, because she's asexual and doesn't enjoy having sex with him herself. She didn't know for sure before they got married, because she was a virgin and thought her disinterest would change because she loved him, but it didn't. They don't want to get divorced because they're happy with each other in every other way, and there's financial issues if they do.” Juliet smiled. “I know all of this because Shawn and I got to know both of them. We almost never have sex with someone we don't know—only twice—and we use protection and get tested regularly. The people that we do sometimes sleep with are almost always the same people that we just get together with every now and then.”

Lassiter frowned. “If you recall basic sex education you'll remember that diseases can be transmitted through oral sex just as well as intercourse. And you didn't ask me if I've been tested.”

“I _do_ remember that, and I'm sorry,” she said. “I kind of assumed you hadn't been with anyone since you moved... you sounded like you weren't really getting along with anyone there, and you're not the type to pick someone up just for sex. And I _did_ ask you if you were seeing anyone.”

“What about people that lie about having been tested, or who _they've_ slept with?”

“Shawn is very good at picking up on people's lies,” she said.

He rolled his eyes. “I can't believe that you still believe that psychic crap. For someone so obviously good at manipulating others, he's about a thousand times more believable _without_ all of that shit.”

“And,” she went on blithely, “I'm fairly good with a background check and my own instincts. Plus, it's not like we do this all the time, really.”

“How often is 'not all the time'?“

She shrugged. “Every few weeks or so. It's more Shawn than me, since he likes having sex with guys so much, and obviously I can't give him all of that. Besides Kyle, there's one other guy he hooks up with once or twice a month, and two or three other people we both have sex with occasionally. We also make plans for it—Kyle called Shawn a week ago about spending the night with him, and since nobody I knew was safely available, I was out last night just to be out. It's just luck that I ran into you.” She smiled again.

Lassiter was still frowning deeply. “It sounds like you're gambling quite a lot for some... frivolity.”

“I can't say you're wrong,” she agreed. “But our jobs sometimes call for us to put our lives on the line to get to the truth or to keep people safe. Maybe it's tempting fate, but Shawn likes to say that he's hoping we're more like bombarding it so that it'll back off from the challenge and leave us alone. And if it doesn't, we'll have good memories of good times.”

“That...” He paused and then sighed. “I'm sorry, but that sounds like bullshit rationalization to me. That's no way this won't eventually backfire on you. And what if the chief, or hell, even the _media_ gets a hold of it? A scandal—that's exactly what the SBPD doesn't need.”

“We're careful,” she repeated, holding his eyes. “I don't want to sit here right now and explain every detail to you, so you'll just have to take my word for it. It's no more of a risk than a single person playing the field; the increased risk would be to the stability of our emotional relationship, and trust me there, too: we're fine. I trust Shawn completely and he trusts me. He's proved it. The outside sex is fun, but we love each other.”

“Well...” Lassiter said after a long moment. “I guess it's your business.”

She laid a hand over his. “I understand that you're concerned about us, and it's sweet of you.”

“You're adults. Well, you are,” he said gruffly. “You do what you want, O'Hara.”

“Carlton?”

He glanced at her.

“If you keep calling me that, I'm going to thump you,” she said seriously, and then she smiled again. “I have a policy that anyone who makes me almost come without taking my panties off gets to have first-name privileges.”

“That's why I've been calling her Jules since we met,” Spencer's voice said from the doorway. His clothes were changed and his hair was wet but spiky, and although he yawned again while slumping into the kitchen, he seemed to be much more alert now.

“Gus is waiting for you,” O'Ha—Juliet reminded him.

Spencer opened a cupboard and got out a jar of Nutella, dragging the waffle plate over. “He'll wait two more minutes. He won't even bitch if I bring him the other one.” He paused, opening a drawer for a knife and starting to slather the waffles. “Well, he probably will, but it'll be harder to understand him with his mouth full.”

“Have a good day, save the bunnies,” O'Hara said, as he dropped the knife into the sink and turned around to go, plate in hands. “And take that disgusting stuffed one with you. Why did you even bring it back here?”

Spencer glanced at Lassiter quickly, and then he pointed to his forehead. “I'm communing with its spirit,” he said. “I need to know where its brothers have all hippity-hopped off to—especially why some of them hop back and some of them forever sail, sail, cotton-tail.”

“Okay...” O'Hara said. “Well, bring my plate back, too.”

“Sure.” He walked backwards toward the doorway, grinning. “Bye, Lassie. Treat my girl right. And then I'll be left.” He winked. “For next time.”

Lassiter wearily lifted his hand. Spencer seemed satisfied with this and turned to go, but not before stopping to say goodbye to the cat from the rabbit. The cat hissed and ran off; Spencer made ghost noises and left.

“Next time,” Lassiter mused.

O'Ha—Juliet looked at him, considering. “I know you're not really the sort that goes for something casual, even semi-regular casual,” she said slowly. “And you live so far away now. But if you wanted to keep it open... any time you're in town, we can see to it that we're available. _Both_ of us would want to make that happen.”

He thought about it for a long moment, and then he sighed heavily. “That's... tempting. It really is. But you're right, I don't think I can. The—the two of you—” He stopped, not wanting to insult her choices or 'lifestyle' or whatever it was again, since he'd already told her what he thought and she'd rejected it.

“Two of us? Do you mean you would find it too weird to have Shawn there, or to have sex with him again?” She smiled. “It's just the two of _us_ here now... it's okay to say that you liked it, or that you want to do more with him. And it's okay to find it a little weird, especially at first.”

“That's not—I mean, I didn't mean—son of a bitch,“ Lassiter growled in frustration, and got up to refill his coffee again. Juliet stayed quiet and watched him, giving him time to drink another cup and put his thoughts in order. “It is weird,” he said shortly. “I'm leaving later today, so I guess I don't mind telling you that yes, I've wanted you for a while, and last night was amazing. Even... even Spencer,” he muttered, dropping his eyes to his plate again. “I never expected him to show up, and I certainly never expected... that. I really didn't know he was... whatever he is.”

“Bisexual,” she supplied.

“Whatever.”

“Even though he was _obviously_ flirting with you for months?” she asked dubiously.

“I thought he was just being a clown, I don't know. How could I take him seriously with that psychic crock?”

“Carlton.” She was giving him a look that he remembered well and still didn't like, a look that said _you're supposed to be_ head _detective_? “He was always smiling at you and trying to touch you, he said a couple of different times that he thought you were 'striking' or otherwise good-looking, he grabbed onto you for those visions whenever he could, he wrote you a little note that said 'hugs and kisses' at the end, he sat in your lap in the chief's office, and he tried to kiss you at your party.“

Good lord, she was right. Had he seriously been trying to push it all away so hard he hadn't put it together? And that didn't include things she hadn't seen or hadn't registered, like the time they'd seen him on the boardwalk, or the time they'd all gone undercover at the speed-dating restaurant, and Spencer had paused on his way by Lassiter's table, his eyes flicking to the empty seat across from him, before moving on. “And I almost punched him all of those times,” he said. 

Actually, he'd only come close once: at his going-away party, Lassiter had been talking with Officer Bledsoe, and when she had given him her good wishes and turned to wave at Juliet, he'd suddenly found Spencer so close they were almost touching. He'd barely had time to register who was in his space before Spencer's hands were on the back of his neck; he'd almost sighed that stupid nickname, and when Lassiter realized that he was leaning even closer, he just reacted, shoving him away so hard he'd almost gone on the floor—would have, if Guster hadn't been there to catch him. Spencer had made an offhand remark about a whirlwind romance, Guster had given him an odd look, and Lassiter had simply turned his back on them both, not noticing until he'd tried reaching for a beer someone held out to him that his hands were in fists.

“I'm glad you didn't,” she said after a moment. “He didn't mean anything by it—just that he liked you.” She paused again. “You never... thought about him?”

He frowned, uncomfortable. “I've never done anything like that before.”

“I know you'd never done anything like it before—I was asking if you've ever _thought_ about it.”

“About Spencer?”

“Or anyone,” she said softly. “But yes... Shawn in particular. I never said anything, even to him, but—Carlton. Come on, this is me. Before you left I was getting major vibes in the room between you two. Sometimes I wasn't sure, but sometimes I thought it was so strong that there was no way you weren't into him—or that you wanted to be, and were trying to find your way to it.” She paused again. “I know it was you who got him his motorcycle back after the weatherman murder. Gus said it was sickening, how pleased he was when you said he was helpful. He wanted so badly for you to solve the murder of the astronomer when it was digging at you, and believe me, he was really happy when you arrested the killer—not just because you solved the crime, but because you felt good about yourself again. And I saw the way you sometimes looked at him.”

He looked at her warily. “What way was that?”

She thought about it. “It was a lot of ways. Sometimes like you were jealous—the way he sees things and puts things together. I know he surprised you more than a few times. Sometimes like you wanted to shake him, like every time he flailed around and said the spirits were talking. And a lot of times it was like you wished he would just quit it and be serious so that you could get along with him. Or be friends. Or more.”

She was relentless, and it was true that it was just them, and he couldn't take back, not even to himself, that he trusted her. “Fine.” He sighed at his syrupy plate. “I thought about him. But only a few times, and then I wanted to punch myself.” He sighed and rubbed his forehead again. “Look, O'Hara— _Juliet_ , sorry. I'm sorry,” he said to her exasperated face. “It's hard to get used to. I don't know anyone right now that I call by their first name.” He ignored her surprised look and went on. “You're very perceptive, and I suppose you got to know me in the months we worked together. So yes, I guess the thought of—of what you said crossed my mind. But I never could take him seriously and I can't trust him now.”

“Why not?”

Lassiter gave her a tired look. “Juliet, he just told me that he was _communing_ with a piece of taxidermy.”

“He wasn't serious.”

“I know,” he said dryly. “Because there's no psychic shit. Tell me you know that, please. I'm not asking for how he really does whatever it is he does. Just... tell me you know the truth. He's not psychic, never was, and never will be. Can you do that?”

There was a line on her forehead. “If I did?”

He shrugged. “Nothing, because that much I already know. I think that's what you meant when you said that he 'proved' that he trusts you, wasn't it? He told you how he does it. And you've been careful to not come right out and say he really _was_ having visions, or talking to spirits, or had any sort of magical powers.” O'Hara was studying him, her head tilted to one side, and he looked back at her impassively.

“I need to talk to Shawn,” she said after a long moment. He grunted and she gave him a cool look. “I can answer you,” she said. “I can give you an unequivocal 'yes'—I know how he sees things and knows things, because he explained everything to me. And that's not a lie, because that could easily mean any number of things, including that he sees dead people or that he's Sherlock Holmes' long-lost relative. But that trust we have? I won't break it. I need to talk to him before I tell you anything else. And... you know, if he thought he could trust _you_ , he might tell you everything himself.”

“Trust _me_?” Lassiter sneered. “Because I'm the one that lies to everyone I ever meet about how I solve crimes, or manipulates people because I'm lazy and too smart for my own good?”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don't. What does he think is going to happen if he tells me something I already know? That I'm going to skip down to the department and shout, 'I told you so!' to everyone that ever listened to him?”

She raised her eyebrows. “Not in so many words. You're telling me you wouldn't be tempted to, say, tell the chief that he's a fake?”

“I already told her that. Two years ago.” When she looked doubtful, he shrugged. “I don't care anymore. I'm not on the force here—I don't even live here. I don't have to deal with him prancing into my crime scene and making everyone working on the case seem like an idiot because they can't fondle random objects and pull magical answers out of their asses.”

“If you told him that—”

Lassiter shook his head. “I'm not telling him anything. I'm not the liar.”

Juliet sighed. “Okay. You won't consider staying with us again, even though you want to, because you don't like thinking Shawn's lying about his secrets.”

He looked at her incredulously. “That's not fair.”

She softened. “No, it's not. I'm sorry, I understand where you're coming from... I just wish that it wasn't a deal-breaker. We both really like you, you know.”

He opened his mouth to say something, but then he quickly diverted back to the original topic. “It's not just that.”

“What else?”

Well, she had asked. “The multiple other partners,” he said slowly. “It's your life and your relationship, fine. But I can't be a part of that. It's too risky and it's not me. Last night was... a lapse of judgment.”

He was surprised at how disappointed she looked. “Don't say that.”

He touched her hand, and then he gently stroked her fingers when she turned it over. “I'm not saying that I'm sorry it happened. I just mean... knowing what I do now about your habits, the people who are—” he paused, trying to remember the word she'd used, “—outside. I can't be one of them.”

Juliet nodded. “I understand, I do. If so many things were different...”

 _Maybe you would be with me instead,_ he almost said.


	4. TMI (Tell More Information)

“Siddy says this is a demon rabbit,” Shawn greeted Gus as he got into the Blueberry, which was indeed sitting at the curb. “Its soul escaped from hell. Bugs Bunny says hi.”

“Are you freaking kidding me, Shawn?”

“Well, I'm sorry, but he was just too much of a stinker. Let that be a lesson to all of us.”

Gus glared at him. “ _Lassiter_ , really? _Really_? I didn't even know he was back in town, and here _you_ are, welcoming him back to sunny California with your dick?” He pulled away from the curb too fast and had to brake hard when they merged into traffic. “I don't want a waffle, Shawn!” he added, when Shawn held up the plate to placate him.

“Gus, don't be the TV dinner that has peas in the cobbler.” Shawn reached down to tilt his seat back and take the sun to a less fierce angle. “I didn't fuck Lassie, Jules did. Where's my energy shot?”

“Up your butt and around the corner,” Gus said peevishly. “I've just been down here waiting for you. And if you didn't do anything with him, why did she say, ' _Shawn_ and I have a guest', not just, 'I have a guest'?” He raised an eyebrow in what Shawn decided was his How Now Brown Cow look.

“I thought you didn't want to hear about it?” Shawn licked the edge of one waffle where the hazelnut spread was drippy. “You're kind of all over the place this morning, buddy.”

“I don't!” Gus glared at a red light, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. 

Shawn ignored his irritation and tried to put his feet up on the dashboard. Gus shoved his leg down so hard that he hit the door, and he had to put his hand over the plate to save his breakfast, which meant his fingers got all chocolatey. “Dude!” he protested.

“Get your feet off my car, Shawn, I'm not in the mood for you right now.”

“ _Wow_ , you didn't just put on your grumpy-pants, did you? You've got on a whole grumpy-suit with all of the accessories, like the grumpbrella and green grump-rubbers to splash around in the rain from the cloud over your head.” Shawn subsided when he realized that his friend was, for some reason, actually pissed off about finding Lassie in their apartment. It was almost like he'd never come up to discover a strange guy in their bedroom or something. “Are you mad because you didn't know Lassie was back in town?” he guessed. “To be fair, I didn't either—I only saw him when I got home last night. _Juliet_ brought him back. I was supposed to be, you know, spending the night somewhere else.”

Gus snorted. “Uh huh.”

“And he's not back, he's... well, I actually don't know why he's in town.” Shawn cocked his head and squinted, licking his fingers and going through everything he could recall from the previous night, examining bits of dialogue and things he'd seen, and coming up with nothing. “He said he was going back today, though. I didn't even know he was who Jules found to keep her company until I got there, and trust me, I was as surprised as you.”

“I bet you were so surprised you tried to get in his lap,” Gus muttered.

Shawn opened his mouth, closed it, and then snorted. “Actually, points to you, because I'm pretty sure I did. But then he was all, 'Spencer, get off me,' and I was like, 'But those words are in the wrong order'.”

“Shawn!”

“Look man, you can either hear about what happened, or you can be mad that you don't know what happened, you can't have both.” Shawn crammed half a waffle in his mouth, hoping Gus would be so off-put by the idea of details that he would drop the whole thing.

“That's not true,” Gus insisted. “Besides, I know what happened. Lassiter looked like he got hit by a truck and Juliet looked like the smuggest mama cat in the yard, not to mention your belt wasn't done up. See, I can notice things too. _Disturbing_ things.”

“Oh, yeah.” Shawn glanced down at his belt, which had been properly re-fastened after his shower. “But that was Jules, honest. Sad as I am to admit it, my charms somewhat failed and Lassie didn't touch me.” He paused. “But maybe they kinda did, and you're half right. He touched my arm. And my head, I think. You know.” He licked chocolate off his lips. “When I was sucking his dick.”

Gus shook his head violently. “No, no, no, no, no,” he chanted. “Stop it, Shawn.”

“I already did!” He gestured to the empty air in front of him. “Do you see me still doing it? _That_ would be talent. Not that I'm not talented.”

“You know what I mean! This is a two-fold direction, if you're capable of following those: Stop with the details, and stop pining after Lassiter.”

Shawn rolled his eyes and sulked. They got onto the freeway without talking, but Shawn wasn't ready to let it go; although, to his credit, he managed to wait exactly six minutes and forty-two seconds after finishing both waffles and tossing the plate into the back seat next to the taxidermied rabbit before jumping back in. 

“I'm not pining,” he said. “If anything, I'm lusting. No—” He held up a finger as Gus glared and started to retort, “—you're the one having a problem, so tell me, why _should_ I stop it? I grant that your reasons before were sound—he was a cop here, he appeared to be straight, he definitely didn't appear to have any interest in me, blah blah et cetera. And I was forced to concur, no matter how disappointed I was. But he doesn't live or work here now, if he's straight he's not unflexible, and _without giving any more details_ , let's just say he never got mad, Jules got him to give the green light and neither of us saw a yellow or red one, and _things transpired_. He didn't even act too weird this morning; he even helped me stand up and told me he was flying back to the stupid South later today, but he didn't call me an idiot or tell me to shut up or anything. Well, not while I was awake, or in the room.”

Shawn stopped talking and quickly replayed everything he was conscious for that morning, deciding that Gus didn't—and couldn't—know that he'd kind of woken up cuddling with George. 

“I mean,” he went on, “Lassie was really quiet, but that was probably that 'getting run over by a truck' thing you mentioned—I'm about three hundred percent sure he's never done anything with a dude before, although I'm equally sure now that he's wanted to. Maybe not with me, granted, but still. Anyway, he mostly just stared at his food, but he kept glancing at Jules, and he didn't look mad. Just... dazed, I guess?” He shrugged. “She'll get him to talk, and she'll tell me if I did anything wrong, but I really don't think I did.”

“You never do.” Gus's face was stony as he moved them over a little to allow a car to swerve around them. “Anything you want, you just _do_ it, and to hell with the consequences for you or anyone else.”

“Oh, god.” Shawn let his head fall back and thump against the seat. “You sound like my dad, Gus. It doesn't become you.”

Gus winced. “Please, please,” he said quietly, “tell me your dad doesn't know about this. Any of the—the _extracurricular_ stuff you and Jules get up to.”

Shawn laughed bitterly. “You really must think I don't ever consider what'll happen when I do or say things. I'm not even allowed to talk about any of the bi stuff unless I want to not exist.”

There was another beat of silence, and then Gus softened. “Sorry. I know your dad is weird about the you-liking-guys thing.”

“'Weird' isn't the word I would have gone with, but yeah, no.” Shawn folded his arms and hunched his shoulders, knowing that he was going defensive, but unable to help it. “As far as he knows, it's just me and Jules, we've been together for almost a year, I love her, and I'm happy. Which is all true. I only ever tried telling him I was seeing a guy once since I got back here, and I told you what happened then. Remember how he didn't have a son until I was dating a girl again?”

Gus pressed his lips together and looked at his friend sympathetically. “I know. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to sound like him about _that_. You really don't get why I find the idea of you hooking up with Lassiter to be... ill-advised? It's not because he's a man, and it's not because of Jules.”

“Is it because he has eleventy-eight guns and I kind of look like a cute little squirrel on a good day?”

“No, Shawn,” Gus said slowly. “It's because of what you said when he moved away—what you said after his going-away party.”

Shawn hesitated; he'd been hoping Gus didn't remember that, or that he hadn't actually said it. It wasn't his fault—he'd gotten a little too drunk at Lassie's party, and kind of for a reason. “You thought I was serious?”

“You were. You think I can't tell?” Gus gave him the Please, Son! look. 

Shawn sighed heavily, and then he pulled out his phone when it chimed. He had a text from Jules, asking if he thought he could make it back by two in order for them to drive Lassie to the airport at three; his flight was scheduled to take off at 4:45 and he wanted plenty of time for security, since he was checking firearms. 

Shawn glanced at the Blueberry's dashboard clock and saw that it was, apparently, almost five o'clock in the morning. “Did we finally hit warp speed and make it to a different time zone?” he asked. 

Gus followed his gaze, checked his watch, and reached for the control panel. “That was reset for some reason this morning when I picked the car up from the mechanic. I just haven't fixed it yet, seeing as I was worried about _other things_. It's eight forty-nine.”

Shawn glanced at the odometer. “Oil change?”

“Yes. Scheduled maintenance is important, Shawn. It's scheduled for a reason. _You_ insisted we spend all day yesterday talking to those creepy hunter friends of Mrs. Raburn's husband, and then talking to the new guy at the taxidermy shop, and I couldn't get it in until they were closing. You're lucky they had it ready before I came to get you.”

“They were creepy,” he agreed. “And seriously, who wants to work at a literal stuffed animal shop. Can I be back home at two?”

Gus gave him a suspicious look.

Shawn held out his phone with Juliet's text on the display. “We're going to see him on the plane with his clothes on, okay? Saying _goodbye_ is okay, isn't it?”

“Probably,” Gus admitted. “And that depends on how fast we can figure out where Mrs. Rabbit's playmates are going off to.”

“Mrs. Rabbit's Playmates,” Shawn mused, texting Juliet that he thought he could make it back, and that if he couldn't, she had to give Lassie's assie a squeeze for him. “Sounds like either a really bad porn or a really good one.”

“About rabbit sex?”

“There's got to be something about the Playboy Bunny in there. Oh, that reminds me—do you think flies can be gay? I was wondering that last night.”

Gus shook his head firmly. “Shawn, I absolutely do _not_ want to know how or why that came up with you and Juliet and Lassiter.”

Shawn snorted laughter. “Buzzzzzzzz.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For the record, I think that Henry would eventually be supportive of Shawn dating whomever he wants, but in this story, he has in the past gotten very dismissive on the grounds that he doesn't believe that Shawn knows what's best for himself/his life. When talking to Gus in this chapter, Shawn was being a little dramatic, but not unreasonably so.)


	5. Not Calling You A Truther!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would really, really not Google "myxomatosis" if you don't want to see a graphic picture of an afflicted bunny. Just saying.

  
_Don't sell your heart, don't say we're not meant to be  
Run baby run, forever will be you and me_  
—We The Kings, “Check Yes Juliet”

  
Juliet took Carlton back to his hotel room around nine, telling him she and Shawn would be back before two-thirty to take him to the airport. The ride there was quiet and awkward, something they both were clearly displeased with, but neither seemed to know how to fix; small talk wasn't the answer, talking about _them_ was, and they both knew it. However, there was nothing more to say unless new information came to light, so Carlton listened to the news on the radio and Juliet listened to him tut about a large amount of cocaine that had recently been flowing into the area and the lack of leads on its source. She felt an urge to talk to him about the case, to see if he had any ideas, but it hadn't been given to her, and that would have been too much like old times, especially with him leaving so soon.

“I'll call you when we're on our way,” she said, putting the car into park in front of his hotel. She looked at him and could tell that he wanted to say something, but she knew that he probably wouldn't. 

“Thank you,” he said after a moment, lifting the latch to open the door. “I'll see you then.”

She watched him go through the doors, hoping to see him turn back so that she could give him a wave and a smile, but he didn't. She sighed and drove home, hoping that Shawn would text her to ask for help on his case to distract them both, but he didn't. She turned on the TV and didn't hear it because she was doing too much thinking.

Shawn did arrive back at their apartment shortly before two, plopping down on the sofa next to her and laying his head on her shoulder. She looked at him and saw that his eyes were closed, so she smiled and gave him a kiss.

“How does your head feel?” she asked softly.

“Better now.” He turned a little and snuggled under her arm, expertly pressing his face into the side of her breast. “Worse when we talked to the hunters again,” he continued, his voice a little muffled. “They wanted us to murder defenseless little animals with them and I had to tell them that Gus would weep into his Cheerios for a month if he got blood on his silk shirt. Poor bunny wabbits. They just go out looking for breakfast, totally unaware some skeevy toothless dude in a camo jacket is going to snipe them for his wife's creep-tacular collection. Jules, you went to college.”

“Yes?”

“Why in god's name does someone need four dozen used-to-be-live stuffed rabbits? Is that a psychological thing? Is she trying to say something? Is this a cry for help? I'm serious, Elmer Fudd would run screaming from that lady's rec room. And not just because he can't say 'rec room'.”

She snorted and then made a face. “Ew. I don't know. When I was in school I had a friend whose father had a lot of taxidermy geese he'd shot. Not that many, but enough so that I'd only loiter in her kitchen if I could.”

He sat up a little more, but still rested his chin on her arm. “Hunting is mean enough, but then they have to take its body and put it on display? I can't even have a pet rabbit after all of this—I wouldn't be able to convince myself it wasn't dead and rock hard every time it fell asleep.”

“Did you want a pet rabbit?”

He raised his eyebrows at her. “Who doesn't want a _bunny_?”

“Siddy.”

“Siddy would _love_ a bunny friend, wouldn't you, kitty-kitty?” Shawn held his hand out to their cat, who gave him an unimpressed look on his way to the kitchen.

“Okay, maybe, but the bunny wouldn't love being hunted.”

“That's what I'm saying!”

Juliet stood up. “Come on, I told Carlton we'd get him by two-thirty and take him to the airport.”

“Or,” Shawn said, not standing, “we could kidnap him and make him live here with us. Not in the closet, because I'm getting the feeling he's had acquaintance with it before now, but like... under the bed, maybe. He can kill all of the spiders during the day and have fun with us at night.”

“Uh huh. What about his job?”

“I just said he could kill spiders. That's far more fulfilling than eighty percent of the jobs out there.”

Juliet held her hands out, and when Shawn grasped them, she pulled him up. “I think he wants to go home,” she said. “And we had a talk after you left with Gus. There probably won't be any more fun.”

Shawn sighed heavily, following her out. “Yeah, I figured. That's gotta be for the best or something, right? Gus was all scandalized, anyway.”

“Unfortunately, it probably is,” she agreed, locking their apartment door. “Poor Gus. But why was he scandalized? He knows.”

Shawn shrugged and held the outside door for her. “He didn't know it was Lassie, and he thinks it's weird. I dunno, because you used to work with him or something.”

Juliet raised her eyebrows pointedly at him, and then she aimed her key fob at her car until its lights flashed. “I'm supposed to believe _Gus_ doesn't know you were halfway in love with him before he moved away?”

He paused in reaching for the handle of the passenger-side car door and glanced at her, but she ignored him, getting behind the wheel and fastening her safety belt. He got in slowly, and she slipped the key into the ignition and patted his knee.

“It's okay,” she said. “I was too.”

“I know,” he said, to both of her statements. 

They looked at each other but didn't speak; they had never talked about Carlton before, not even as a fantasy, and for the same reason—it was a little more than a fantasy for them both, and as such, best left alone.

Juliet got her phone out and scrolled through her contacts to find Lassiter, C. “I'm just going to let him know we're on our way,” she said to Shawn, who nodded and put on his own seat belt. Carlton didn't pick up, so she assumed he was either in the shower or avoiding her/them—she supposed they'd find out in about half an hour. She left him a message, and then she started the car and backed them out of their space.

“That's why Gus was having a breakdown about it,” Shawn said a few minutes later, staring out of the window. “He wouldn't even eat a waffle.”

“Wow. Was he angry?”

“No. Well... not so much angry, just... he basically told me to check myself before I wrecked myself.” He shrugged. “He was just doing the thing where he rains on my parade a little to remind me that I can't have a parade whenever I feel like it because there's weather in the real world, or something.”

Juliet smiled; she had once put Gus's lecturing to Shawn in a similar way, and she was glad he'd accepted her translation of his friend's behavior instead of becoming rebellious and contrary. He usually took Gus's scoldings far better than anyone else's, but sometimes he was a poster child for reverse psychology. “Gus has been looking out for you for a long time,” she said.

Shawn shrugged again. “Yeah, but it doesn't really matter, since Lassie's leaving.” He was quiet for a moment, and then he snorted. “Imagine if he'd never left, Jules—you two would probably be married and I'd be all left out in the cold.”

“The cold of southern California?”

“It gets pretty cold everywhere with no one to snuggle up to,” he said wisely. When she glanced at him, she saw he was still gazing out of the window, his face solemn. 

She was just wondering how to breech the subject of her talk with Carlton, and some of the things she'd been thinking that early afternoon, when Shawn demonstrated how easy it was for some people to believe he really _was_ psychic. 

“So, what did you and Lassieface talk about?”

She smiled again. “Well... that's interesting, actually. We talked about what happened, of course—”

“That was _awesome_ ,” he said dreamily, and then looked at her for the first time since they'd gotten into the car. “I was okay, right?”

“Yes, you were fine,” she assured. “I asked him last night, when you were falling asleep under the kitchen table, and it was one of the things we discussed after you left with Gus. If not for half a dozen whims of chance, it might never have happened, but yes—he's all right with you and with what you two did.”

Shawn visibly relaxed. “Good. I mean, I thought so—he didn't look like he wanted to punch me, or to puke or anything, but... good.”

“I asked him if he thought about you before, and he said he did.” She glanced away from the road for a second to gauge his reaction to this, and she saw that he was grinning at her. She smiled back, but only a little, because she knew that what she said next was going to invert his good feelings almost instantly. “He also said that he can't trust you,” she said softly.

As she knew it would, Shawn's face fell, and he slumped in his seat. “The psychic thing?”

“Yes.”

He folded his arms and stared out of the window again. “The whole thing is his fault—I never would have let it go on this long, or even started it, if he just believed me in the first place. But no, anyone that picks up on things he doesn't must be in on something.”

“I know,” Juliet said gently.

“My dad used to pull that unfair shit,” he complained. “I tell the truth, no one believes me. So I tell some other truth, or lie, just to get people off my back, and then all of the sudden, it's 'oh, you're a liar'. I can't win.”

“Shawn... you _are_ a liar.”

She tightened her fingers on the steering wheel at the incredulity on his face. “Thank you so much,” he said after a moment. “That was very supportive. Not only of me, but of the agency I'm trying to run and the people I help.”

“The ends may sometimes justify the means, but they don't negate the means or make them nonexistent.” She sighed; they'd gone through this before, and it always made him so defensive that she usually backed off at once. “I didn't say you were a bad person, because you're not. But you can't deny that you do lie, frequently, and sometimes not only about the way you figure things out, or how you know things, but who you are. That's what Carlton's problem is. Detectives sometimes have to lie, or to not give information to suspects and witnesses—”

“Or to go undercover, lying about their entire lives...”

“Yes,” she agreed. “To gather evidence or to apprehend criminals who have committed crimes or who are planning to commit crimes. Witnesses and suspects, Shawn. Do you remember the reason you told me the truth?”

He sighed. “Yeah.”

“And it was?”

He made a face at his window, and she knew it wasn't because he'd known where this was going almost from the start, but because he hated to be prompted and led, forced to say aloud something everyone already knew—and often, something that made him sound like a dick. “Because I wanted you to be sure that you could trust me, that I wouldn't lie when it mattered.”

“Right,” she said, more gently.

“So, Lassie can't trust me because I'm a liar. I guess we're not getting married.”

Juliet smiled a little. “That's not the only reason.”

“That's not the only reason he doesn't trust me?”

“No, that's not the only reason you're not marrying him. First of all, what about me?”

“You're invited,” he said seriously, and then he cracked a grin again. “It'll be the world's first three-way wedding.” He paused, musing. “Actually, I wonder if there's never been a triad marriage? You'd think there would be, with seven billion people on the planet and thousands of years of history. I wonder if Gus would know.”

“Well, I'm sure he knows about bigamists.”

Shawn paused again. “I don't think Gus is _that_ big of a rap fan. You know how he is about singing with no music.”

Juliet was confused for a moment, and then she snorted laughter. “Bigamy means marrying two or more people, neither of them necessarily the Notorious B.I.G.”

“Oh. Good, because he's dead, and I'm pretty sure narcolepsy is a whole other thing.”

“Necrophilia—and I hope to god you haven't heard it both ways.”

“Don't be judgey, Jules. Just look at what we get up to.”

“Right. Speaking of that...”

When she trailed off and didn't continue, Shawn looked back over at her again. “Yeah?”

She had been deciding whether or not to even pitch this to him, and whether or not to bring it up here, and now. They still wouldn't make it to Carlton's hotel for at least fifteen minutes, and maybe seeing him again would make up Shawn's mind in favor of her idea, instead of saying goodbye and then thinking it over, after Carlton was gone it was less likely he'd ever see them again. “There's something you could do,” she said slowly. “You don't have to, but if you wanted to, it might help... things.”

He squinted at her. “Are we having a vague-off? Or did you stop at the store and pick up some of the new crypTic Tacs?”

“No, Shawn. I was just thinking earlier—”

“Uh oh,” he said softly.

She glanced at him, an eyebrow raised and ready to be annoyed, and she saw that he was looking out of the window again. “Yes?” she asked.

“Never mind, nothing.” He looked over at her again. “What do I not have to do that you think I should do that I'm not going to want to do?”

She frowned a little, but she returned her gaze, if not her total attention, to the traffic. “You could tell Carlton that you're not psychic, and explain to him how you really solve cases,” she said.

There was complete silence in the car for several moments, and when she dragged her eyes away from a very riveting red light to check on Shawn, she saw he was doing his best to imitate Gus's Please, Son! look. 

“Wow, Jules,” he said after the light changed and they continued. “I was pretty drunk last night, and I thought I could tell that he stuck you real good, but I didn't think I missed the part where he literally fucked your brains out.”

“Shawn.”

“ _Why_ in the name of—of _names_ would I do that?”

“Shawn, he already knows, so I don't—”

“Of course he _knows_ , he's not stupid. A little clueless sometimes, sure, but he never believed for a minute that I was actually _psychic._ ” Shawn put both of his index fingers on his forehead mockingly.

Juliet gave him a severe warning look. “I believed you.”

“No, you didn't, not really. You were unsure sometimes, and a few other times you _wanted_ to believe, but you're too logical for that crap.”

“No, Shawn,” she said quietly. “I believed you. Someone else, I might not have, probably wouldn't have. But it was you, and I did.”

He looked at her doubtfully. “Then why didn't you kick me in the balls when I told you the truth?”

“A lot of reasons. I'm sure you remember that I didn't talk to you for almost a week?”

He grimaced. “Yeah, there was that. I just assumed you'd never talk to me again.”

“I spent a lot of that time thinking about the fact that you told me in the first place, because you didn't have to. I never questioned you, and at the time, I didn't suspect you at all—not of that. I knew you were lazy, and a manipulator, and a cheat—“

“This is all going in your vows, right?”

“But I thought you were those things because you had... help, I don't know. That you knew things and could see things no normal person would figure out in a million years.”

“That's... true, though? It's just...” He gestured to his head again, though this time he wasn't being a smart ass. “Me. No spirits, or whatever.”

She nodded. “Which actually makes you more impressive. Stop grinning, I'm telling you off.”

He turned his smirk to the window again. “Right.”

“You told me the truth, even though you didn't have to, and even though there was a huge risk that I wouldn't want anything to do with you anymore. Why did you do that?”

He shrugged. 

“Don't be difficult, Shawn. You told me because you wanted to be important to me, and you knew that if I let that happen, and later found out the truth, I really would never speak to you again.”

“Well, yeah. I didn't want to chance that. You're too smart, I didn't want to get caught out and lose my chances with you once I knew for sure that I loved you.” He sighed and drummed his fingers on the car door handle, still looking out of the window. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that you could count on me. _Me_ , not some spirits or psychic powers or visions.” He looked at her again and reached over to take one of her hands. “I would do anything for you, even bare my deepest, darkest secrets.”

She smiled, feeling her love for him as she squeezed his fingers. “I know.”

He kissed her hand. “I had a Backstreet Boys CD. When I was nineteen.”

“Eeew, get out of my car.”

“Jules!”

“Nope, sorry, end of the line for us.” She slowed down for another red light and gestured to his door. “I was an *NSYNC fan. Had I known this about you I never would have moved in with you.”

“But I've extensively studied the 'Everybody (Rock Your Body)' video! I can rock your body _right_. ”

She tapped a finger against her own lip, and then she nodded. “Okay, we'll try to make it work. I'm surprised you didn't get into the 'Bye Bye Bye' song.”

“Hmm? Oh, yeah, many a joke was made, mostly by my friend Dave. Who also threatened never to talk to me again, but that was mostly because I started describing all of the things I would do to Justin Timberlake—which was strictly retaliatory, as that curly hair he had kinda freaked me out. He looked like blonde broccoli.”

Juliet burst out laughing. “You're an idiot.”

“An idiot that knows when the universe is trying to sneak him vegetables.” He paused. “And when his girlfriend is trying to change the subject. Sweet try, but no: I don't think I need to tell Lassie anything except so long and thanks for all the dick.”

This comment made her picture a dolphin, and it was her turn to squint at him. “Do you mean fish?”

“I thought I was the only one that was wasted? Jules, I got exactly zero fish from Lassiter last night, unless you're counting the trouser trout, which, frankly, we always should from now on.”

“Are you ever going to call him Carlton?” she wondered.

“Nah. For one, that's a stupid name. I can't help but think, 'Yep, you are definitely one ton of Carl.' And secondly, we seem to operate fine on a last-name basis.”

“He called you Shawn right before he came in your mouth.”

She watched for it, and yes, he licked his lips. “There was that,” he agreed. “But as you said, there won't be any more. He's going back to the potty-mouth South, and he doesn't trust me. He doesn't even like me.”

“I think a good fifty percent of that is that he doesn't like the psychic thing,” she said tiredly. “You know that he knows it's bullshit, and he knows that you know he knows it—”

“Yeah, but I know that he knows that I know that he knows—“

She gave him a look. “Being a smart ass is, I'm sure, the other forty percent.”

“So you think he only ten percent likes me?” He considered that. “Wow. That actually sounds like a pretty high estimate. So, we've established that everyone's clued in on my hijinkery, and the fact that it's hijinkery. What's going to change if I suddenly go, 'Oh yeah, that thing that's annoyed the living shit out of you since you met me, especially since you knew it wasn't real? It's totally not real.'”

“What will change is that he'll know you're capable of telling the truth, and that you care about telling him the truth. That's a big thing with him, since he deals with so many liars almost every day.”

Shawn shrugged. “I still don't understand why it matters, Jules. He's leaving.”

“You don't want him to come back? To visit us, maybe?”

He looked surprised. “Well... yeah, sure. If he even wanted to.”

“I think he does.”

Shawn stared at her for a moment, and then he raised his hands with his palms up. “You couldn't have said that, like, fifteen minutes ago?”

“But he won't,” she went on. “That was mostly what we talked about this morning. I told him that both of us were serious about wanting to see him again, but Carlton is not the sort of person who likes to have casual sex, especially with people he doesn't know or isn't sure he can trust—or with people he feels he knows he can't trust.”

Shawn tilted his head a little to one side. “So... you're telling me that if I fess up that I'm not psychic, and how my memory and the tricks my dad taught me work, Lassie might want to have sex with us again? No, I can't figure out how to say it so that it doesn't sound stupid. Suggestions, audience participation?”

“That wasn't exactly what I was saying,” she said. “I meant that I think it would help... in the future. If he did come back to town, and if he did want to consider staying with us. If he felt better about being able to trust you... but that's not his only problem with it, so I don't mean everything's on you, and I don't mean anyone said it was guaranteed.”

He was frowning now. “Okay? What's the other problem? You want to just spit out what you guys said? We're almost to the Canary.”

Juliet started to speak, and then she looked at her boyfriend suspiciously. “How did you know that's where he was staying?”

Shawn gave her a grin. “The spirits told me? Ow, stop, police brutality!”

“You love it when I brutalize you,” she scoffed, putting her smacking hand back on the steering wheel.

“True.” He smoothed the denim of his jeans over his thigh, where she had whapped him. “That one was actually super easy—I didn't even have to look. When I showered this morning I saw a receipt from the hotel restaurant in the bathroom trash, along with some pocket lint.” He glanced at her. “Lassie is sad. Do you know why?”

She thought about it. “He's lonely,” she said at last. “He was having a hard time calling me Juliet, because he doesn't know a single person on a first-name basis in Georgia. He's not getting along with the rest of the PD there—I think he's being a little snobby and impatient, and they're being resentful and jealous. How do you know he's sad? Was it sad pocket lint?”

“All pocket lint is sad,” he said sagely. “No, it was a lunchtime receipt: breakfasty food, milk, three double scotches and a bad tip,” he recited. “He ate late because he slept in with a hangover from the day before, and the only time I've ever known him to get wasted was when something was really bothering him, like when he couldn't peg the murder of the astronomer as murder. Then he ate scrambled eggs and bacon at one-forty in the afternoon, with a glass of milk instead of his usual coffee for acid indigestion from the food and the previous night's alcohol. Then the three double drinks right away after the food, indicating he's been drinking pretty heavily for a while, so a hangover from the last night, and probably not because he's celebrating being on vacay alone. And a two-dollar eighteen-cent tip for the server, which means someone was annoying him when he was already in a mood, and he made the whole bill the nearest round number instead of tipping a percent or a flat number.”

Juliet shook her head a little after that, thinking that she was still sometimes a little floored by the instant leaps he could make. Carlton _had_ seemed delighted to see her, and it hadn't taken that much to get him to come back to her apartment, which was a little surprising compared to how reserved he'd been eighteen months ago. 

“The other issue he brought up with seeing us again is the times we spend the night with anyone other than each other,” she said. “He asked about how that works for us, so I explained a little, and he said he can't be another one of our... fun times.”

Shawn clicked his tongue. “I always knew Lassie didn't like fun.”

“It goes back to him not being the sort to have casual sex.” She shrugged. “We're not strangers, so that's helpful, but I think he's only going to want to come back for seconds with people he sees something of a future with.”

“I _said_ we could all get married.”

“Yeah, that's illegal.”

“The deal with his wife and getting divorced and being like ten years older than we are probably doesn't help.”

“I'm sure not.”

Shawn frowned. “But he's all lonely. And I get that he doesn't trust me, and mostly doesn't like me, but what about you?”

“I'm with you,” she reminded him. 

He flipped one hand up. “I ain't mad about it.”

“I know, but Carlton doesn't view relationships like that. I think he thinks that you're almost dishonoring me by our mutual agreement to have sex with others.”

“Jules, I would never put dishonor on you _or_ your cow.”

That one didn't make much sense, but she knew what he meant. “I know that, but like I said, Carlton doesn't see relationships like that—most people don't. Even though I explained that we trust each other and we know what we're doing, he found it very strange that we could still be in love and happy, but also having outside sex.”

“That's because he's a fun-hater and probably wouldn't have sex outside anyway because the moon was watching him.”

“He thought last night with us was fun,” she said. “It just seemed to bother him that it was a moderately regular thing; that he was just another one in a line.”

“Okay, he can have first-dibsies,” Shawn said diplomatically. “Or we'll just cut out the line entirely and make it Classy Lassie all the time.”

Juliet smiled. “I was actually considering that.”

Shawn looked surprised again. “Really? I was kidding.”

“I know. He didn't say one way or the other that it would make a difference—it's just something we could think about.”

“To... not spend the night with anyone else?” Juliet had to press her lips together to avoid laughing at the crestfallen look on his face. “But Kyle,” he said. “And Zack. And Laura! And Sean-No-Relation.”

“Come on, that one's got to be weird,” she said, slowing behind a delivery truck and putting on the turn signal. “You can't even moan his name because it's yours.”

“Don't think I don't,” he said. “I've almost said it a few times when I was with you. I'm not ashamed that I love myself.”

She snorted laughter. “I'm going to moan my own name the next time we have sex.”

His face lit up, and she laughed again. “That sounds hot. Do it now!”

“No!”

“Tease. I'll start: oh, Shawn, you're amazing,” he said in his squeaky voice, then returned to his normal one before squeaking again. “Yes, I know. Do that again! Mmmm.”

Juliet laughed harder and whapped his leg again. “Stop it, I'm trying to drive!” He subsided, snickering, and she wiped her eyes. It was quiet for a moment, and then she squeaked, “Ohhh, Juliet, smack it harder, oh yeah.”

Shawn cracked up. “I fucking love you,” he said when he could. “Lassie will never know what he's missing. Come on, let's kidnap him. You got some bungee cords in the trunk? I'm sure we can scrounge some jumper cables and a used battery.”

She thought about that, trying to find his punch line, and then when she thought she did, she snorted again. “To get him to turn over?”

He pointed his finger at her like a gun. “Although he doesn't need any of that to get my motor going.”

“You keep saying we shouldn't let him go,” she said thoughtfully. “I know you're joking, but you're really partly serious. I really think he might want to spend the night with us again if he felt better about you being truthful and all of our other lovers. Those are just risk factors he doesn't like. If he was our only outside-regular...”

He gave her a quick look before turning his head toward the window again, but he was fidgeting, not just bouncing his leg but picking at his cuticles too. “You're _really_ gung-ho about this. I don't think I've ever seen you gung-er or ho-er.”

She ignored that. “I just think it wouldn't hurt to think about it.”

“I think it would hurt to think about thinking about it,” he insisted. “You would totally miss Kyle—he likes to be in the middle.”

“You wouldn't rather have Carlton in the middle?”

“Since when is he even an option?”

“Since last night,” she said softly. “And not when he let you blow him, but when he let you cuddle with him with his arm around you. Remember?”

“Oh yeah.” Shawn frowned. “That doesn't mean he wants anything more to do with me. Especially if he's not the type to screw people he doesn't trust, and I fall into that category.”

“You can get yourself out of that category.” They could see the hotel from the street now, and she reached over to squeeze his knee lightly. “Just think about it, kay? No one said you have to do it now, and it really might not change anything.”

“But you think it will.”

“I do. Even if he never sleeps with us again, it'll change how he regards you, and he could still be a part of our lives. I think all of us want that.”

Shawn shrugged as she turned into the hotel's parking lot. “Okay. It seems like a longer shot than Judd Nelson really giving up the bad boy charm for Molly Ringwald, but I'll think about it.”

Juliet found a space, put the car in park, and raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you just going to think about Judd Nelson and Molly Ringwald?”

“Well, yeah, of course. I'm almost never not thinking about them.”

She paused. “They're fifty.”

He spread his hands. “Lassie is almost forty.” His face suddenly changed and he shuddered. “And I'm almost thirty. Stop making me think about this.”

.

Juliet smiled at Shawn and patted his leg. “Think about everything else we talked about instead.”

He shrugged again, not wanting her to know already that he would do any little thing she suggested on this topic—it wasn't about being pussy- or cock-whipped, it was about... something that wasn't those things. And also didn't have a single thing to do with both of the police detectives he'd been dreaming about since he'd been roughly cuffed by Lassiter, met Juliet in the diner, and found out they were partners. Gus had thrown the remains of an ice cream sandwich at him the first time he'd mentioned being between them, and when Shawn had chastised him on the wasting of good ice cream, and then proceeded to expand on what he could do with certain detectives and chocolate syrup, his best friend had thrown a magazine, an apple, and was reaching for the stapler before Shawn graciously took the hint and ceased. If there was even a small chance that Juliet knew what she was talking about—and there was bigger than a small chance, to be realistic, because she had actually gotten to know Lassiter—Shawn was on board to try. Fuck fate. 

And, hopefully, the police.

Juliet had pulled out her phone to check it, and said she had a missed callback from Lassiter. Shawn glanced around them casually while she phoned him back and confirmed that he was ready. 

“I'll meet you in the lobby,” she was saying. “Okay, see you in a minute.” She folded her phone closed and looked at Shawn. “Want to come?”

“Yes, but not in there.” He grinned at her look and shook his head, digging for his own phone. “I'll wait—I want to call Gus quick about the rabbits. That lady just has too freakishly large of a collection and I need some more support to wrap my head around it.”

She smiled. “All right. We'll be right back.”

When Juliet disappeared into the hotel, Shawn hit Gus's speed-dial and got out of the car, leaning against the door and putting his sunglasses on to hide several quick glances around. “Hey buddy!” he greeted. “Where are you?”

“At my office,” Gus said warily. “Finishing some paperwork for that 'real job' thing.”

“Dork. Uh... guess what I've got?”

“Myxomatosis?”

Shawn paused. “How dare you. I don't have to stand for this. What is that?”

“A disease caused by the myxoma virus, tested in the 1950s in Australia on wild ra—”

“Dude!”

Gus sighed. “Bunny feel icky,” he said slowly. “Need big Band-Aid.”

“But my bunnies say, 'What's up, Doc?', not 'G'day.'” Shawn waited, poised on the edge while Gus attempted to wait him out.

“Shawn, I know you're—”

“I said, 'G'day!'” he snapped. “Anyway, you didn't guess what I _do_ have. Ready? It's... a cotton-tail.”

Silence. “I don't even want to know what that means,” Gus said finally. 

“What, you don't think I could pull that off?”

“I don't want to know what you're pulling off or doing with your tail, Shawn.”

He snorted. “I guess that one doesn't really work. It was meant to go along the lines of 'pigtail', but the only cops following me right now are totally welcome to see me from behind. I do have a secret admirer, though.”

“Eeeew,” Gus said. “Why do you insist on sharing that? Do you think I'm going to give you points? I'm not.”

“You should! For any occasion, really, but this time it's for our case.” He turned his face into the sun, studying the Lexus that was idling up the block. “I'm _being followed_. You probably are, too, since this isn't the same car I noticed when you dropped me off, and it tailed me and Jules all the way to Lassie's hotel.”

“What? There was a car following us when I took you home?”

“Yeah, a dark green Navigator; it always stayed two cars behind you. There's a black Lexus sticking to me and Jules right now—I saw it pull out behind us when we left our place, and it's been in sight every time I checked the side-view mirror on the way here.”

“Why are we being followed?” Gus demanded.

“I don't know, my hair looks that good today? It's psychic season? Eh, or not, since Lassie won't hunt me.”

“Stop playing, Shawn! You're not actually psychic, and that doesn't explain why you didn't say anything!”

“I couldn't think of a funny way to include the words 'navigate' and 'up the Blueberry'. Plus I wanted to see if it would stay with me when I got out or leave and follow you. If I told you, you would have gotten out and followed me in and told Jules.”

Gus made an anxious, annoyed sound. “That means you haven't told her?” 

“Don't be ridiculous, of course I haven't. She's being really weird right now, and this has to be about those stuffed rabbits, since that's the only case we're on. Which is even weirder, seeing as I still have no clue what the deal is. I swear to Dog I don't know what's going on with my life lately,” Shawn fretted.

“She's being weird how?”

“I'll tell you later—she's in the Canary right now, Lassie-hunting. Don't worry, you're around a ton of people, and I'm about to be around two cops; we're safe. I just wanted to give you a heads-up to stop smuggling diamonds in your crevices just in case someone rolls up on you and wants to know what's up, doc.”

“Please,” Gus scoffed. “If I was going to smuggle anything, it would be in my sample case, since it's my job to carry drugs around. And it would throw off the dogs.”

Shawn opened his mouth to suggest a variety of ways in which Gus could travel with more secret 'drug samples' and up his sales on the side, and then he froze as several things flashed into his mind at once: the pieces of Mrs. Raburn's taxidermy collection that seemed to have moved around while she was out of the house, the pieces that disappeared entirely and then came back, the one her husband couldn't remember shooting that was her newest favorite. The employee at the taxidermy shop who had only recently started there, the one who had been evasive to Shawn and Gus's questions, his bloodshot eyes and twitching hands. Jules mentioning another detective being assigned to figure out why there was suddenly so much cocaine in the Santa Barbara area. The Blueberry's clock being off after its oil change, which to Shawn's knowledge didn't require an electrical reset, and the sudden tails on them both.

“Holy shit,” he said softly. “Bugs Bunny is on crack!”

“I always thought so,” Gus agreed. “I never doubted for a moment that his soul was stew.”

“No, dude!” Shawn barely stifled an urge to jump up and down with the blast of excitement flooding his entire body. “ _Stuffed_ rabbits! Oh man, this is _good_.” He glanced around again, locating the Lexus and then checking the doors to the hotel lobby. “Okay, look: me and Jules are just about to take Lassiter to the airport. After he's gone, I'm going to tell her everything, and we'll call you to meet up and sort everything out.”

“So I'm supposed to lead this so-called tail right to us?”

“They'll follow you no matter where you go,” Shawn said. “They put a GPS tracker in your car, so no more unscheduled stops at Madame Zhu's Happy Time Spa And Foot Rub.”

“Oh my god! How did—how do you—”

“Relax, you can get all ten piggies massaged this weekend. I know this girl who does a mani-pedi that'll turn your life around.”

“Shawn!”

“And I'll explain everything when me and Jules meet you at the Psych office in about an hour. Be there or be hare.”


	6. Gift Shop Confessional

Lassiter looked at himself in the bathroom mirror one last time before leaving his room, making sure the neck of his shirt covered the mark O'Hara had put on him. After he'd showered and gotten dressed in a clean suit, he'd been tempted to leave it, partly because it'd been so long since anyone had felt the desire to put lips on any part of him, and partly because those lips had been _hers_ , but his need to look neat and professional won in the end. That was all right... he knew it was there. It would fade too soon, but he had a strong feeling the memory of it would cause him to see it on some level for a long time, maybe forever.

Although she hadn't picked up when he'd called her back, she'd called back and left a message saying they were on their way, so he checked his luggage again, making sure the locked case with his weapon was secure, and he headed downstairs. He was just finishing the check-out process when she called him back and said that they had arrived. He finished up with the clerk and was just turning around when he saw her behind him. Her smile when he looked at her caused him to pause in his step and almost lose his stride. _If so many things were different_ , he remembered her saying. 

“Hello,” she said brightly. “I missed you.”

He tried not to grin at this, just managing to keep it down to a small smile. “It's only been a few hours.”

“That was long enough.” She held a hand out toward his suitcase and his carry-on. “Can I carry one of those for you?”

“I've got them.”

“All right. Shawn is waiting outside.”

When they got out to the parking lot, Lassiter saw that Spencer was standing outside of O'Hara's car, leaning against the side of the hood and talking on his phone. When he saw them, he flipped his phone closed and pocketed it, and then he stood up straight and gave Lassiter a huge, theatrical salute. “Officer!” he shouted.

Lassiter made a face at him. “Stop that.”

“But you're my superior, I have to.”

“Can't argue with that.” O'Hara had unlocked the trunk, so he lifted his suitcase and put it and his carry-on case inside. “But you're not a member of any sort of force, so quit it.”

“I'm a card-carrying member of the G-Force.” Spencer grinned. “Or something about servicing?”

O'Hara snorted and shut the trunk. “I don't think you salute for that.”

“Maybe you don't, but I'm trying to be classy.”

“How about you just get in the car?” Lassiter asked him, trying not to be too exasperated.

“You're that eager to fly away from us? Tsk. I see how you are.”

“No, I'm not!” he said, a little too vehemently. What was it with those two and the guilts? “I just—I kind of have a job, Spencer. A real detective job.”

“You had a job here, buddy,” Spencer reminded him, reaching for the back door handle. 

Lassiter sighed, seeing that O'Hara was watching them out of the corner of his eye. “Well, I can't just... transfer back.”

Spencer paused, standing in the open door. “Why not?”

“Police reasons,” he said after a moment. “What are you doing? You don't have to ride in the back.”

Spencer quirked his eyebrows again. “I like getting in the back.” He waved toward the front. “You like the front seat, and I don't really care. It'll be like I'm famous and Jules is driving my limo. You can be my bodyguard—don't forget to carry me around somewhere a la Kevin Costner.”

“That makes you Whitney Houston,” O'Hara said.

Spencer grinned again and slid into the back seat. “I never said I wasn't fine with that.”

Lassiter shook his head and got into the front seat as O'Hara slid behind the wheel. When she started the car and switched the radio on to some pop-rock, he automatically reached for the band switch and dial to find the news. She looked at him, amused, and he switched it back to FM, remembering that it was her personal vehicle. “Sorry.”

“That's okay.” She pressed a preset and located a local broadcast. “I wouldn't mind hearing the latest.”

“Hey, turn that up!” Spencer suddenly leaned forward, between the front seats. O'Hara did, and as she pulled out of the parking lot they listened to another story about someone being arrested with cocaine on his person.

“Why do you care about another coke ring?” Lassiter asked him. “Don't tell me you want to try to investigate.”

“Dat's wight, wabbit,” Spencer said, almost directly into Lassiter's ear, and then sat back again.

O'Hara looked at him in the rear view mirror. “Do you know something, Shawn?”

“I know lots of things,” he said. “For example, I recently learned that while it can take six months to a year to get a freshly-murdered rabbit back from the taxidermists' and set up in your rec room as a creepy replacement for children, you can buy dozens of them from estate sales and pawn shops for fifty to a hundred bucks a pop, making your wife think you're the best hunter-slash-animal-cruelty-supporter since Ted Nugent.”

“Democrat,” Lassiter sneered.

“Those people sound like the gross stuffed rabbits are a better fit for them than children,” O'Hara said.

“Probably, because they don't _just_ have rabbits—that's just what they have most of, and what the wife likes the best.” Spencer made a disgusted noise. “She named all of them, and they're not cutesy names like Bugs or Peter Cottontail or Trix or Hopsy, they're names like... Sofia and Mitch and Katelyn.”

“Ew.”

“At least the sickos don't have any kids to stuff,” Lassiter added, looking on the bright side.

“There is that,” Spencer agreed. “You a fan of hunting, Lassie?”

“Only criminals.”

“Eeeew,” O'Hara said again.

“Not killing them! I only shoot them when it's necessary.”

“And only stuff them into cells?” Spencer asked. “No tickets for The Most Dangerous Game in your future?”

“No, of course not!” Lassiter rolled his eyes. “I don't willingly shoot live targets. Not unless they're asking for it, anyway.”

“That's good to know.”

“Were you planning on becoming one?”

“A palm reader in New Orleans told me that I would die execution-style,” Spencer said. O'Hara gave him a look in her mirror again, and he shifted in the back seat. “No, really. But then she also said I was never going to meet the man of my dreams, so I was forced to conclude that _that_ was crap.”

“Maybe he'll be the one that executes you,” Lassiter muttered.

“Make up your mind, Lassie: you're going to kill me or you aren't. I can't stand the suspense.”

Lassiter looked at O'Hara, slightly confused, and she shrugged at him. “Uh, aren't.”

“Cool cukes.” Spencer turned sideways in the seat, putting his feet up across the other seat. Lassiter spent the rest of the ride to the airport looking at the Santa Barbara scenery and not trying to figure out what Spencer's remarks meant.

When Juliet sailed past the sign directing cars to the drop-off at the airport and aimed for the short-term parking, Lassiter glanced at her. “You can just drop me off in the front.”

“No, we want to see you off—right, Shawn?”

“In every way,” he said at once.

“Security won't let you very far,” Lassiter pointed out. “Dropping me off would be much easier than trying to find a place to park and—”

“We're coming in,” she said firmly. “Goodbyes in the car aren't good enough.”

He frowned slightly, a little uncomfortable as she circled the short-term lot. “It's not like it's forever,” he said. She smiled at him and Spencer murmured, “Damn right.”

O'Hara and Spencer perused the gift shops while Lassiter checked his bags, declaring his firearms and showing his badge, and then glaring at the clerk, who didn't seem to understand that the _head detective_ of the Macon Police Department _probably_ wasn't planning to bring down the aircraft, especially not when he'd followed protocol when it came to traveling with his personal weapons. It was almost twenty minutes before he walked away from the desk, his gun case and ammunition checked and re-checked, and he dragged his carry-on behind him quickly, before they decided they needed to search his underwear for explosives. He was law enforcement, for crying out loud, and he was in a bad mood when he searched for his friends, finally locating them in front of a bank of coin-op candy and toy machines.

“Sorry, I gave you the last one for the rub-on tattoo machine,” Juliet said, closing a change purse and putting it back into her handbag.

“Lame,” Spencer complained, looking at something in his hand. “I wanted Megatron.” He saw Lassiter approaching and grinned. “Hi, Lassie. Do you have a quarter?”

“Completing your transition to beach bum?” he snapped. O'Hara raised her eyebrows and he sighed, reaching into his pocket.

“No way,” Spencer scoffed. “I won't deny that I like lots of things in my crevices, but sand has never been one of them. Ooh, thanks, I can get Runts _and_ Skittles.” He took the two quarters Lassiter held out and jammed them into two of the candy machines. 

“Were they giving you a hard time at the desk?” O'Hara asked.

“A little, nothing I can't handle.” He paused, not sure what he was going to say or how to say it. “Well, um... thanks for the ride.”

“Of course.” She smiled. “It was our pleasure. All of it.”

“Mine too,” he said after a moment, not looking at either of them.

“Are you going now?” Spencer asked.

He shrugged. “I guess I might as well, since they're going to want to search every part of me.”

“Dibs.”

“You're not TSA.”

Spencer popped something that looked like a tiny banana into his mouth. “I never said it was for security.”

O'Hara stepped forward and hugged Lassiter quickly, surprising him. “Have a good flight,” she said softly. “And keep in touch, or else.”

“Okay,” he said. 

“Bye pal, we'll see you next time,“ Spencer said, and held out his fist.

Lassiter gave him a reproachful look. “I'm not going to bump you.”

“Really?“ Spencer looked mildly surprised. “Not even my ugly?”

Lassiter rolled his eyes and reached down for his carry-on's handle. “Goodbye.”

“Awww, c'mon, here.“ Spencer held out his hand as if to shake. Lassiter sighed and reached for it, not surprised when Spencer jerked it back, but when he threw both arms around his middle and hugged him as well. “Come back and see us,” he heard him say softly. “I don't want to have to come to the South to find you, though I guess I will if I have to. I'm pretty sure I was banned for life, though.”

“You can't be banned from the South,” Lassiter said, torn between amusement and exasperation. He had the strange feeling that this was already becoming his default sense when it came to Spencer.

Spencer released him and straightened up. “Tell that to _The Satanic Verses_.”

O'Hara snorted, then stood on her toes to kiss Lassiter on the cheek. “I'm with Shawn,” she said lightly. “You come visit us soon. Or else.”

“I... just might,” he said awkwardly. “I do miss Santa Barbara. The weather is so much nicer...”

“I'm sensing that you're just about a million pounds of crap in a hundred-and-eighty pound bag,” Spencer said, and tilted his head. “Do you get that sense, Jules?”

“Wow, that's so weird, I think I do!”

“All right,” Lassiter said. “The two of you can shut it.”

Spencer grinned. “Nope, sorry, we're open kind of people.”

“I noticed.” He shifted his carry-on. “I'd better go,” he said, and held his hand out to O'Hara. “Detective.” She shook his hand, smiling. He met Spencer's eyes, and forced himself to do it. “Shawn,” he said reluctantly, and turned to go before he was enveloped in what amounted to a puppy-man once again.

“Bye Lassie, I love you!” Spencer shouted.

Lassiter stopped and looked back at him, incredulous, and saw Juliet laughing with Spencer's arm around her shoulders, one of her arms around his waist. She shrugged and waved at him. He rolled his eyes and shook his head, and then he raised his hand to them both. Spencer beamed a gigantic grin at him and waved, and Lassiter turned toward security. He wasn't at all thinking about frequent flier miles and three-day weekends he could easily take from the MPD. Not even of the sunny kitchen on Graham Street with the stupid cartoon magnets and the bedroom with the king size bed.

.

Back in the car, Juliet stuck her keys in the ignition, but didn't turn them. “Shawn...”

He looked at her brightly. “Yes'm?”

“Don't think for a second that I didn't notice how you steered the conversation away from the story on the news about cocaine and Carlton asking if you were investigating.” She gave him a stern look. “What do you know?”

He beamed. “ _Lots_ of stuff.” He had his phone in his hand and was selecting a contact. “I'm calling Gus to make sure he's going to meet us at the Psych office. You should probably call the chief and tell her Trix Rabbit is about to find a totally different kind of sugar high.”

She blinked and then her eyes widened. “You're telling me the stuffed rabbits have cocaine in them?”

“It's actually kind of brilliant,” Shawn said. “But yeah, it all fits: the girl who hired us said her aunt kept finding that some of her new rabbits were moved around, or disappeared and came back—ones she'd just got back from the taxidermy shop, which has a new employee. I'm guessing he drilled into some of the animals to smuggle around his product as a test run, maybe forgot which ones he'd done, or maybe the owner didn't know and gave Creepy Hunterface the wrong ones when he came to pick up his order. He really didn't strike me as being smart enough to notice something was updoc.”

It not being 1986, Juliet refused to ask what an updoc was. “How much cocaine can you really fit into a stuffed rabbit? I thought they had framework and such to keep them posed.”

“If you take out all of the stuffing, and only stuff it with snuff? Enough.” He grinned, clearly pleased at his rhyming. “Oh, the one I brought home last night? The wife wanted me to psychically feel its spirit, but when I mentioned the markings on its face to her husband, he said he didn't remember murdering one like that, but that he must have, if she liked that one the best. I'm pretty sure that one is chock full of _fluffy_ goodness, and the dealers are totally mad that they can't find it, because it's in the back of the Blueberry. Also, the guy at the shop totally looked and sounded like a cokehead, but I was so creeped out by being in there I didn't think about it until later. I did, however, see some invoices from a shipping company and a date when they were going to send out a bunch of other animals, like coyotes. You could put a lot of coke in a ki-yote.”

Juliet shook her head and got out her phone, both grossed out and amazed. “Okay, I'm going to call this in.”

“You should probably also tell Vick that I had a vision of someone breaking into a car maintenance shop and putting a tracker in the Blueberry when Gus took it for an oil change last night. Oh, and there's someone following us, too.”

She would have time later to chastise him for not telling her about all of that in the first place, but for now she pressed her lips together and settled into procedure. “Do you know the vehicle make and model, and where are they now?”

“Black Lexus sedan still idling at the curb down the block. Hi, buddy,” Shawn said into his phone. “Are you ready for the cavalry? Because I hope they realize this means war.”


	7. Risk < Reward

  
_I'll do it anyway, no matter what they feel_  
_Ain't got all the facts, but I've got a hunch_  
_And I know the deal_  
_I'll do it anyway, shine what you might have heard_  
_There's something at hand, it just ain't planned_  
_It's such a beautiful word_  
—The Lemonheads, “I'll Do It Anyway”

  


Lassiter went into the Macon PD with a cup of coffee and a headache, not in that order. The humidity didn't help, nor did the chief's skimping on air-conditioning, and especially nor did Officers Parson and Briggs looking over their shoulders at him and elbowing each other. He scowled and went into his office, closing the door firmly and continuing his glare at the pile of paper on his desk. It didn't wither and go away, like paperwork sometimes did back in Santa Barbara, when O'Hara was his partner and he could assign it to her, so he sighed and got to work. It was very slow going, and not only with the tedium, but because there were two sets of eyes, one blue and one hazel, that didn't want to leave his mind.

He got up to get another cup of coffee an hour and a half later, and then he had to refrain from throwing the pot at Officer Parson, who was lounging in the break room with a newspaper and giving him the hairy eyeball.

“You got something to be doing, Parson?” he asked.

“Just having some coffee, Detective.” Parson smirked.

Lassiter narrowed his eyes. “Is it _hilarious_ coffee?”

“Not particularly. I was just having me a look at this paper, and thinking about how magical a place California must be—that's where you're from, ain't it? La-La Land, and all of that?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I didn't know y'all landed most of your cases with the help of psychic fortune-tellers that played with little bunnies, is all.” Parson smirked again, and pushed the paper toward the end of the table. “I guess you get your help where it comes.”

Lassiter picked up the folded paper, wishing he could be surprised by the photo of Spencer and Guster grinning proudly in a taxidermy shop, surrounded by posed rabbits. _Santa Barbara Private Psychic Detectives Shawn Spencer and Bruxton Ghoster discover upwards of forty pounds of cocaine in area taxidermy business_ , the caption read. _“The bunnies called to me for help,” Spencer told reporters Tuesday night. “This was a sizeable bust and we're thankful the suspects in our custody weren't able to distribute these drugs to other areas,” Detective Juliet O'Hara commented._

“Looks like they made a bigger collar than you have in the last five years,” Lassiter said coolly. “What's important are results, not smart ass remarks. You need to get back to work—I checked the logs from when I was gone and I saw that you haven't done diddly shit when it comes to patrol. Guess who just volunteered to work this weekend.”

Parson's face fell. “Assigning overtime ain't part of your duty.”

“No, but I had a memo from the chief this morning that someone needs to cover Hartzing.” Lassiter smiled. “And I'm about to report to him about the Sherman street robbery case, and... anything else I can think of.” He watched Parson stalk out of the room angrily, and then he sat down at the table to read the article more carefully, although his coffee mug was empty again before he realized he'd spent most of that time gazing at the picture instead of reading the copy.

When he got home, he poured a drink and sipped it slowly, staring through his TV and thinking. Finally, he just picked up his phone from its charger and called Juliet to congratulate her on the bust. He'd gotten home late, but California was three hours behind Georgia, and he could hear Spencer in the background talking about French fry pizza, or something, when she answered.

“Hi Carlton,” she said, a little too loudly—probably to get Spencer to shut up, which seemed to work. She sounded pleased to hear from him, at any rate.

“Hello—I'm sorry, it must be your dinner time? I can call back later.”

“No, that's fine, we're not ready to head out just yet. How are you?”

“Good. Congratulations on your bust—it was in one of the papers here. Not front page,” he added quickly. “And probably only because of the oddity of the case and the strange fact that taxidermy is popular here, but anyway, I read about it.” He forced himself to stop talking by dumping the rest of his scotch down his throat.

“Strangely, it seems to be popular everywhere,” Juliet said. “Thank you—it was Shawn who figured everything out, of course, though I haven't let him off the hook yet for not telling us that we were being followed all the way to take you to the airport.”

He paused with the neck of the scotch bottle tipped toward his glass. “We were what?” Juliet chuckled, and then spent several minutes telling him everything that hadn't been in the news story while he finished another drink, slightly amazed. “He's an idiot,” he said when she finished by detailing how much rock had been inside the taxidermied rabbit Spencer had brought with him the night he'd come home drunk. “He should have told you the second he realized the first car was on them.”

“No argument from me—Gus wanted to, once Shawn told him about it, but he says he didn't want to make us skip out on taking you to the airport.”

“I could have gotten a cab.”

“Cabs lack the personal touch, Lassie,” Spencer's voice said. “And I wouldn't have gotten to give George a good ol' squeeze goodbye.”

“I wasn't wearing the same shirt.” Lassiter paused. “Am I on speaker?”

“No,” Juliet said. “Shawn's just using my leg for a pillow, and he can hear you.”

“Where are my kudos for the bust?” Spencer complained. “All the information I discovered, like the GPS in the Blueberry from the clock being reset and the cars following us? I mean, other than what the rabbits told me.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “Fine, you're dazzling. You're Sherlock Holmes."

“Sweet,” Spencer said after a pause. “Gus will like being Watson. Jules, you're Irene Adler, and Lassie is Lestrade. That totally fits, since Lestrade hated it when Holmes used his amazing crime-solving powers to beat him to the punch.”

Lassiter poured himself another drink. “Sherlock Holmes didn't believe in psychics.”

“He also didn't believe in the solar system,” Spencer said. Then, “Jules, I'm going to die of hunger right in front of you. Don't get me wrong—eating you was a blast—but there's a serious rumbly in my tumbly. Can we please go get some dinner now? I'll even buy you some—wait for it—rabbit food.”

At least he'd managed to wait until they were finished having sex before calling her. “I'll let you go, Juliet,” Lassiter said. “It was nice to talk to you.”

“Same here,” she said warmly. “We'll talk again soon, right?”

“Sure, yeah. Uh, just... call me any time.”

“We will,” she promised. “Have a good night.”

“You too.” He ended the call and sighed to his ceiling. He wondered where they were going to go for dinner, and thought he should probably eat something himself, but he didn't feel like it. It was too quiet in his house again, so he flipped the TV back on and had some more scotch for dinner.

**JULY 2008**

  
Juliet had been wrong, Shawn thought, as his finger hovered over the 'send' button on his phone. It did hurt. Maybe not in a literal sense, but in a pants-sense, it was hurting plenty. _Sorry_ , his text reply to Kyle read, _not available rn or maybe for a while, smth w/ me &j going on. Ill prob get in touch later if thats ok._

“What's your problem today?”

Shawn looked across the office at Gus, who was doing the Psych books or taxes, or something else with numbers, maybe Sodoku. Tax people probably liked Sodoku. “Nothing,” he sighed. “Just something Jules and I were talking about, you don't want to know.”

“You're probably right.” Gus frowned down at his papers, and then glanced back up. “Since when do you care if I want to know or not?”

Shawn shrugged, winced, and then hit send. “Timing sucks,” he muttered. He hadn't gotten to have sex with Kyle the night they'd planned to, and if he was going to be on board with Juliet's idea of seriously trying for Lassiter, he wasn't going to get to for at least a while.

“You know, you never did tell me how Jules was being weird,” Gus said after a moment. “Is she still?”

“No—yeah, a little.” Shawn dropped his phone on his desk and then dropped his forehead next to it. “Never mind, you don't want to know.”

“If you're saying that to make me super curious, you can stop, because it's not going to work.”

“Kay.”

“Shawn!”

He looked up to see Gus's face somewhere between exasperated and super curious. “What? I'm not doing anything!”

“Yes you are, you're not telling me!”

“Now you _do_ want to know? Dude, I'm going to need a program so I can play along with your whimsical changes of heart.”

“Just because I want to know what's going on with you, and why you've barely said a word for the last two days, doesn't mean I want to know how many dicks you have flying at you.”

Shawn goggled at his friend for a long moment; he tried to hold it in, but the mental image of fifteen or so single penises zooming around the room—and then stopping and honing in on him like heat-seeking darts—caused an unstoppable snickering spell. “Wow,” he said when he could manage. “I'm never going to sleep again. Who's hungry for hot dogs?”

“Not me,” Gus said.

“Tacos?”

“You pay.”

Half an hour later, as they sat at an outside table and slathered their lunches with guac and sour cream, Shawn considered his situation. “You really want to know what's going on?” he asked.

“Can you keep it PG?”

“Soft R at the most,” he promised. “It has to do with Lassie, though.”

Gus paused with a taco halfway to his mouth, his forehead creasing. “Lassiter? I thought he was back in Georgia. Did something happen before he left?”

“Nothing more than you already know about, and it's not exactly him—like I said, it's Jules.” Shawn took a bite of one end of a taco and munched thoughtfully, trying to decide how to explain what they'd discussed without giving away too much detail, or too much of how he felt. “Basically,” he said finally, “she really wants him to spend the night with us again—like, more than once, like semi-regularly—but he had two problems with the idea, both of which had mainly to do with me, and she wanted me to agree to do two things, even though neither would actually mean anything would happen, and both kind of really suck, and not in the good way, but I said I'd think about it, and I kind of already agreed to do one of them, and I'm pretty sure I'm going to do the other—I just have no idea how, or why, since like I said nothing is guaranteed, which I can understand, but it's just really weird to go through everything if there's not at least some payoff and it's kind of like I have to go, 'Here you go, the ball is in your court', and he could just go, 'Nope, I decided I don't want to play', and then I get to stand there with no balls to play with.” Shawn stopped, seeing that Gus was staring at him. “No balls,” he repeated. 

Gus closed his eyes briefly. “Okay,” he said. “Start over. Juliet wants Lassiter to—to have a sleepover again? And since he had two problems, both having to do with you, I'm guessing he wants to spend time with her but not with you?”

“Well, kind of. She told me that they talked about it all after we left that morning, and he said something about not trusting me because of the psychic thing.” He made a face. “Which I maintain is his fault to begin with. He was going to arrest me—and I know I've said it before, but if he wanted to put cuffs on me that bad, all he had to do was ask. I'm down with that.”

“Uh huh,” Gus said dryly. “What was the other problem? You said you thought he'd never done anything with a guy before?”

“Yeah, but that wasn't it. I mean, that was true, but that wasn't the problem.” Shawn sipped his drink and then grinned. “He wanted me. I knew it.”

Gus shrugged. “Whatever, fine, fifty points. So what was the other deal?”

“Me and Jules', uh, extra-curricular stuff. He found it really, really weird.”

“I told you normal people would.”

“Normal people are _boring_ , Gus.”

“So you're saying Lassie is boring?”

“Well, he wouldn't count if he was sleeping with both Jules and me, would he?”

“That sure as hell wouldn't be normal.”

“Thanks, buddy. You're not getting any cake.”

“Oh, I'm getting my cake,” Gus said. “How does you _and_ Juliet sleeping with others make it mostly your problem?”

“She seemed ready to instantly give it up, whereas I was like, why?” Shawn frowned at his remaining taco and dabbed the end of one finger in the sour cream. “The big thing she kept coming back to is that he doesn't trust me, and doesn't want to sleep with people he doesn't trust, especially more than once. So, she wants to have another sleepover, and in order to do that I apparently have to come clean about the psychic thing, _and_ no more sleeping with other people, _and_ she doesn't even know for sure that it'll happen again, just that those two things need to happen in order for the question to even be posed.”

“Okay,” Gus said after a moment. “Forgetting the 'you confessing being a fake' part for now, do _you_ want it to happen again? I thought you did, but you don't sound very sure.”

“It's not that I don't. Prepare your delicate sensibilities, but we all know that I've wanted Lassie's dick in me since forever.”

“That is _not_ PG, Shawn!”

“I said soft R. You're my best friend and you'll listen to my gay fantasies, or you're not getting any dessert.” Shawn gave their server a brilliant smile when she set down two fresh drinks and then put a hand over her mouth to stifle a burst of giggles as she walked away to check on another table.

“There is not enough cake in the world.”

“What about cake _and_ ice cream?”

Gus grumpily moved his straw to his new glass of iced tea. “Two scoops.”

“Agreed. Anyway, it's not that, since yeah, I do want him. It's just that Jules was being really insistent, and said she wasn't positive but _almost_ positive that it could happen if I agreed on both of those terms, and it weirded me out because Lassie lives so far away now, and even though he seemed a lot more okay with me than he did before he moved, or before the first sleepover, he's obviously way more into her, and I'm pretty sure that's not just not trusting me, or because I'm a guy.”

“Oh,” Gus said softly. “You're worried that they're too into each other and you're going to get left out.”

Shawn put his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand, slumping forward. “Maybe. Probably not, though, right? Because we actually love each other and there's... trust, and good vibes and... stuff?” he trailed off at the solemn look he was getting.

“I never thought it was a good idea to sleep with other people, and not just because of the risks of STDs and whatnot,” Gus said. “There are lots of people that make that work, but they set strict limits, and changing the dynamics of their own rules and relationship for an outside person isn't one of them. That's how you end up with trouble.”

“She wouldn't actually tell him how I do it,” Shawn mumbled to his plate. “Or even admit that I told her—she told him she wouldn't, because I trusted her, and she wouldn't break that. She just... really wants me to do it.”

“Never minding that he's still a cop, and he's _hated_ not knowing how you solve crimes, and if you admit you're not psychic, he's probably a lot more likely to turn you in rather than take you to bed?”

“Jules doesn't think so.”

“What do you think?”

“I really don't know. I'd have to talk to him more.”

“Right. Which you can't really do because he won't talk to you for real because he doesn't trust you, and because he and your girlfriend want to do each other all night long, and at this point any involvement _you_ have is either not going to be there, or not going to be real, unless you go for it and confess, not knowing what'll happen, which could go any way at all.”

“Excellent nutshelling, as always.” Shawn sighed and rubbed his eyes. “And that would be why I haven't really felt like talking for the last few days.”

Gus nodded. “Because you were deciding to go for it anyway, since what it really boils down to is a chance for about fifty of your dreams to come true, and you do almost nothing but take chances.” He glanced around and signaled the server. “It's cake time.”

“Good call, buddy. I would say, 'Damn right this calls for cake', but when does something _not_ call for cake?”

“You're finally talking sense,” Gus said.

.

“Okay,” Juliet said, turning her computer around so that Shawn could see the screen. “What do you think?”

He shrugged, not looking up from his phone and the game he was playing. “Whatever you think.”

“I want you to read it,” she said. “We're going to try for this together, right?”

He sighed. “Fine, as long as you don't make me add a schmoopy PS.” He pulled the computer on his lap and his eyes darted over the email she'd carefully composed. After a few minutes, he tilted his head thoughtfully and typed something at the end before giving it back.

Juliet read over his addition, smiled, leaned over to kiss him, and clicked _send_. He looked like he might say something, but when she raised her eyebrows, he shrugged and went back to his phone. “It's going to be okay,” she assured him softly.

“I know.”

“I love you.”

He looked up and grinned, and this time when he said it, she knew he meant it. “I know.”

.

Lassiter sat back at his computer desk, tapping his finger on the arm of his chair and trying to decide what he really thought about the email he'd gotten from O'Hara. It wasn't very long, but it seemed to say quite a lot, mainly that several things were poised to roll down a hill and that it was up to him to yank out the starter blocks.

He didn't know. He was a good cop who made good decisions, and to reply in the affirmative almost certainly wouldn't be one of them. Ultimately, it shouldn't matter that he was lonely here, that he missed them—even Spencer's childish jokes and the constant mischievous glint in his eyes—that he hadn't, for all of his throwing himself into work for a distraction, managed to get that night out of his mind. Or the idea of another night. Both of them.

This definitely required more booze.

He got up to get a bottle and a glass, and then he returned to his seat, re-reading the email very slowly and wondering if there was any way he could actually stop himself from giving in, and any way he could not want to.

> _Dear Carlton,_
> 
> _Congratulations on your promotion! They couldn't have chosen a better assistant-chief; you've done so much for the PD in the last few months, even in the couple of weeks you've been back from your sister's wedding, that you more than deserve it. Everyone from the SBPD is so proud of you, and we are so glad that you are rising up and taking crime rates down._
> 
> _We know that you are very busy right now, but I have some time off coming available next month, and Shawn and I were thinking that it would be great to be able to come visit you. We very much enjoyed seeing you, so much that neither of us can stop thinking about you. We wonder if you still think about us. Particularly of the talk you and I had, where you expressed interest in seeing us again, but had two issues that seemed to need addressing before any further consideration. Just to make this clear: neither of us are expecting any sort of consideration. We would just like to make you aware that we have had several discussions and have jointly decided to cut out current extra-curricular activities entirely, present company excepted. To your other stated concern, one of us has decided that if you are willing to listen, a couple of things should be cleared up._
> 
> _Please let us know if you might be interested in spending any more time with us soon, and at any other points in the future. We miss you and would love to congratulate you in person on your new position, and any other positions you may hold._
> 
> _—Juliet_
> 
> _ps did u know that rabbits like licorice, reindeer like bananas, and i have never lied to you when it mattered. just fyi. h &k ss_

So they decided to stop sleeping with anyone outside of their relationship... except they both wanted to sleep with _him_. And... not just once. Had they both gone completely around the bend? He still didn't understand why someone like Juliet O'Hara, who was beautiful and clever and who could—and, apparently, sometimes did—have anyone she wanted, would be interested in changing part of her chosen lifestyle to have a chance to be with him. Who was he to set boundaries on her life, to presume to set any sort of regulations on the relationships of fully consenting adults? Absolutely no one—and he hadn't meant to, he'd really decided that while it was amazing to touch her and hold her, she was more than something he could ever attempt to hold on to for long. His reasons for not wanting to be a casual part of their outside-sex lives were explanations, not conditions.

And then there was Spencer, who was infuriating and remarkable, and immature and brilliant, who could be enthusiastic and earnest and... even kind of sweet. Who had also evidently decided to give up part of his life, part of _himself_ , for a chance to be with someone he used to frequently refer to as “Lassieface”. Whatever his true methods were, they were obviously deeply important to him, something wrapped up tightly in a ball inside of him. If Shawn was willing to unwrap and toss them to Lassiter, he wanted to be ready to catch. The implications of all of this were almost too much to believe. 

“And who in the hell is feeding candy to rabbits?” Lassiter asked his empty house. When it replied with its never-ending silence, he pretended that that was what decided him. Not the way Juliet's eyes looked when she knew something and was amused by it, or the fact that he'd just thought of Spencer as “Shawn”.

> _Juliet,_
> 
> _Thank you very much. I hope to continue to shape this department into a force criminals will respect, once certain individuals with a propensity for slacking have been turned around. You probably wouldn't credit what passed for regulations before I got here, but with me working my way up, the MPD is finally entering a state of actual professionalism that can be counted on._
> 
> _Regarding the last time we met, I can say that I certainly remember it well, and that I am indeed interested in spending more time with you. I agree that we might also have some things to discuss. Let me know when you are thinking of arriving and I will see if arrangements can be made for me to have time off as well._
> 
> _—Carlton_
> 
> _P.S. What? No. Yes._


	8. Beep Beep, Shawnie!

  
**AUGUST 2008**

_I'm so nervous, I'm so tense_  
_My heart can't forget about this self-defense_  
_The air is so hot and my breath comes fast_  
_I thumb the cool blade but I know this can't last_  
—CAKE, “Shadow Stabbing”

  


“Macon,” Shawn said solemnly. “My dad says it's like Vegas if Ned Flanders ran it.”

“That's Branson, Missouri,” Gus said. “And you're still not Bart Simpson.”

“Gus, don't have a cow. I'll be deep in the cold, cold ground before I recognize Missourah.”

“Whatever. How long are you and Juliet going to be gone?”

Shawn checked the confirmation email that he'd just received. “Four days—we're flying out on Thursday the 14th and coming back on Sunday the 18th. Jules is going to go see some art and science theater and I'm going to spend an entire day at the Sports Hall of Fame; that's going to be worth the trip alone. After she sees some lame art stuff she's going to come look at the huge football exhibits with me, since Lassie is weird and thinks golf is better than football.”

“Macon actually has quite a lot of black history sites—you should check out the Tubman Museum, and the Otis Redding Statue and Memorial Bri... fine, I'll tell Juliet to go see them,” Gus huffed.

Shawn sat up straighter in his chair and stopped pretending to snore. “Sorry buddy, you said 'museum'.”

“The Sports Hall of Fame is a museum!”

“But it has sports! Dude, we're not really going to _sight-see_ , unless you're counting previously undiscovered tracts of Lassiter County.”

“Yeah, in that case, I don't want to know about what sights you're seeing, public or personal. And god help you if you try to show me pictures.”

“Either way, it's got the potential to be one hell of a little vacation,” Shawn said. “You got your key to feed Siddy, right?”

“That cat doesn't like me,” Gus grumbled.

“He can sense evil, cocaine, and people who repeatedly failed the Pepsi challenge.”

“It doesn't count when you cheat, Shawn! I know you kept switching the cups on me!”

“I was making it more of a challenge! Okay okay, when me and Jules get back, Sprite versus Sierra Mist challenge—we'll have her officiate. Deal?” He raised his eyebrows, and Gus rolled his eyes and nodded. It was quiet for a moment, and then Shawn mused, “You know, I'm kind of terrified. That's good for some reason, right?”

“I wouldn't say so, but that's not going to make a difference, is it?”

“Not really.” Shawn clicked his tongue. “I have to stay firmly convinced that if I'm not a little scared, it's not real.”

Gus shook his head. “I've said it before, but I still think it bears repeating that I think you're putting way too much on the line.”

“Yeah, I know, you graduated first in your Redundant Class when you were the top student.”

Gus gave him another look. “Make all the jokes you want, Shawn.”

“Can I get that in writing? You do realize that permission slip gives me carte blanche to never shut up.”

“You never shut up anyway.” Gus sighed. “You and Jules are both adults, so you can do what you want, and on some _very small_ level I can understand you both wanting to play around, since you're both into it. But man, of all the strange and grotesque. _Lassiter_?”

Shawn grinned. “Wrap your sweet head around it, dude. We both pretty much got our targets primed and locked now. It'll be okay.”

Gus looked doubtful. “If it's not?”

Shawn shrugged, eyes on his computer screen. He didn't have a good answer, or a bad one.

His terror momentarily abated the day before he and Juliet left, for a span of a few hours in which he semi-taunted his father about the Sports Hall of Fame and Henry threatened to disown him if he really did attempt to get Hank Aaron's bat out of its case. “You have no faith in me,” he scoffed. “I was going to put it back before anyone noticed it was gone.”

“Yeah, well, it's kind of hard to have faith in someone whose entire life centers around playing games!” Henry retorted.

“Which makes no sense,” Shawn told Juliet as she finished squeezing her carry-on into the plane's overhead compartment. “It's almost like he forgot that baseball is a game, and that Hank Aaron centered his life around it. Talk about your double standards.”

Juliet smiled and sat with her handbag between her feet. “To be fair, you're not playing _professional_ games.”

“I would love to play professional games, don't get me wrong. Do you think he would finally be proud of me if I was the all-world champion of The Floor Is Now Lava?”

Shawn decided, on the way to their layover in Chicago, to buy Jules a present when they got home. Not necessarily a big one, but something more than a DVD or the Gummy Bear ice cube tray that, to be honest, was really also for anyone else that lived in the apartment. She put up with so much, and she was so patient, and she always knew the right things to say, like “I can pay”, and “Your hair looks amazing today”, and “Gus will get over being wrong—Samantha was totally hotter than Jeannie.” She also was frequently known for saying, “Settle down, everything's going to be fine”, and “I couldn't have done this without you”, and “I love you, too.” 

When the plane was descending toward the Middle Georgia Regional Airport that early evening, he decided she had put up with so much of his nervous chatter throughout the day, and had never snapped once, that she actually deserved a serious present, something that probably didn't end with the word 'tray'. Or maybe he could get her some sort of really cool tray and pre-fill it, although probably not with gummy bears. Unless they were really cool gummy bears, like the ones with swords fitted into their paws, maybe some with tiny hats, or—

“Wet panties.”

Shawn jerked his head up, and then he grinned when he saw that the plane had landed, the rest of the passengers were disembarking, and Juliet was smirking at him. “Say what now?” he invited.

“Not yet,” she said. “I was just trying to get your attention, since 'Long Shawn Silver' wasn't doing it, which is strange. What were you thinking about?”

“Gummy bears. No, really!” he insisted, when she wrinkled her brow. “I saw one online that weighed five pounds, and I'm thinking of making it the Gummy God while all of the little bears worship him in sticky fashion.”

She was giving him a knowing look as he pulled their carry-ons out of the overhead. “You're just going to take a bite out of its head and make them all cry.”

“Way to be insensitive, Jules, wouldn't you?” She had that look on her face when she was trying very hard to not make fun of him, so he stuck his nose in the air as they made their way into the airport proper. “Go ahead, snob it up. I'll just ask Lassie. He's coming to get us?”

“Yes, he should be near the baggage claim.” She took out her phone, switched off the airplane mode, and checked her messages while they searched for the luggage limbo. Shawn hiked his backpack up higher and dug for his own phone, hoping that Juliet didn't notice how jumpy he felt.

.

Lassiter was not at all surprised that he heard them before he saw them: her blonde ponytail cocked to one side and her lips pressed together in amusement as she listened, his yammering voice, always slightly higher when he was excited, going mile-a-minute while his hands shaped something in the air. When a reunited family in front of one of the luggage turnstiles moved, Juliet saw Lassiter standing near a bench, and her face lit up. Spencer turned to follow her gaze and he, too, broke into a huge grin.

“Lassie!” he called. “If I took a bite out of God's head, do you think you would likely be _more_ or _less_ gooey?”

.

Juliet gave Shawn a good elbowing for the horrified look on Carlton's face, though it was difficult to scold him when she was trying so hard not to laugh. “Shhhhut up!” she managed, clapping one hand over her mouth to muffle her giggles. “There's my suitcase—get it before Carlton kills you. Or someone else in this crowd.”

He looked around quickly, seeing roughly eight million disgusted glares, and had the grace to actually shut his trap while darting forward for her case. “Sorry, sorry, Jesus loves me,” he murmured to the crowd as he came back to her and they walked toward the exits. “I'll repent that on my deathbed.”

“That may come sooner than you think.” Carlton had folded his arms and was scowling at him. “Do I not remember correctly that you've spent some time in this part of the country? Is that why you were banned?”

Shawn raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said I couldn't be banned?”

“Keep talking and we'll see,” Carlton said. He shot a look at someone who muttered an, “Amen, brother!” behind Shawn, and then held his hand out to Juliet. “Hello, Juliet. I'm sorry to not greet you properly, but I think we should probably leave immediately, before we start getting pelted with rotting fruit.”

“Who carries rotting fruit around with them?” Shawn wondered, following them to the parking lot. “And by the way—hi, Lassie, I missed you too.”

“I didn't miss your ludicrous non-sequiturs,” Carlton said.

“Aww, come on, it had context, really.” Shawn bounced on the balls of his feet while Carlton led them to his car. “Listen: deep in the forests of the mystical gelatinous ursines of the Gum-Tum, there once lived—”

Juliet took his hand and squeezed it gently, signaling him to calm down and hush up. “It's so nice to see you,” she told Carlton. “And to finally be on the ground. O'Hare was a mess—I think they're contracted to be—and we haven't eaten since this morning.”

“I had Gummy Bears,” Shawn said under his breath. “Food of the gods.”

Juliet almost asked why the gods were cannibals, but reminded herself that Carlton preferred more serious conversation, and that she could easily engage Shawn in candy banter on the flight home.

“I wasn't sure if you would be hungry,” Carlton said, unlocking the trunk of his car for their luggage. “There's plenty to eat at my house. I bought cold cuts and I could grill some chicken and vegetables.”

“That sounds good.” Juliet smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shawn misquotes Bart Simpson in the beginning from the episode "Bart On The Road"; he then quotes Grandpa Simpson's disdain for the state of MIssouri from the episode "Homer Bad Man". The chapter title is from Stephen King's "It" (to "beep" Ritchie was to inform him he needed to stfu).


	9. Flying and Falling (Not In That Order)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who has left comments and kudos and support for this story. I wish none of you to be smeared with cold mashed potatoes (unless you're into that—then, you know. Potatoes gonna potate).

  
_Detective is flat, no longer is always flat out_  
_Got the number of getaway car, didn't get very far_  
_As lucid as hell, these images moving so fast_  
_Like a fever, so close to the bone—I don't feel too well_  
_And if you choose to take that path_  
_I will play you like a shark, and I'll clutch at your heart_  
_I'll come flying like a spark to inflame you_  
—Crowded House, “Pineapple Head”

  


They sat on Lassiter's back deck and ate as the sun went down, both Juliet and Spencer exclaiming in relief as the humidity began to wane. Spencer had made a point to pretend to pick something off of his arms as they got out of the air-conditioned car and headed into the house, whining about how the air was _on_ him. Juliet told him a horror story about hair frizz she'd experienced when living in Miami, and he'd looked so authentically traumatized that Lassiter gave him a Popsicle once they'd gotten their bags stored away in the spare bedroom. (Which may also to have been to forestall any comments about the single twin bed in the spare bedroom. Sleeping arrangements were just going to have to be played by ear.)

“Sweet, thanks!” Spencer had said, looking pleased as he stripped the paper cover off. “Ooh, it's swirly.” He looked over shrewdly. “Did you get these just for me?”

“What makes you think I got anything for you?” 

Spencer scoffed. “Please.” He yanked the freezer open to survey the contents, and then he nodded, satisfied. “Ice, juice, stir-fry, mac 'n cheese, broccoli, shrimp, waffles, blueberries, garlic bread.” He swung the door closed, and then brandished what was known in this part of the world as a shit-eating grin. “And BananaBang/CherryBerry Swirl Multipack. Those are mine. And let me say I love the name.”

“Figured you would,” Lassiter said nonchalantly, skewering cut peppers and mushrooms. Spencer hopped up on the counter, looked down Juliet's shirt, and announced that he could see her boobs. She looked up at him from the melon she was slicing, retorted that she could look up his nose and see his brain, and Lassiter hadn't been able to keep from snorting laughter at the way he clapped a hand over his face.

“You said you have tomorrow and the weekend off from work?” Juliet asked. She set her empty plate on the deck table and sipped her glass of wine.

“Yeah. I don't know if you had anything planned, exactly—”

“Sports Hall of Fame!” Spencer interrupted, almost knocking his plate off his lap. “And Gus said something about a Bathtub Memorial.”

“Wow,” Juliet said. “ _Shawn_. The Harriet Tubman Museum is what he said.”

“He just wants to make me learn. There are only two things I plan on learning in this state, and both of them include balls. Don't die, Lassie,” he added, when Lassiter inhaled his own drink and began to cough.

When they'd all finished eating, they took their plates back inside and Lassiter offered Juliet a refill on her wine. He'd offered a glass to Spencer as well, but he'd made a face and asked what else there was; after being told there was wine, scotch, and coffee, he'd demanded directions to the nearest liquor store. Lassiter had told him that he lived in a dry county, just to see his face, and then when Shawn had looked sufficiently dismayed, he'd relented and directed him to the pantry, where a new bottle of vodka waited.

“I thought you didn't get anything for me,” Spencer said, flashing the big doofus grin again as he pulled off the label and unscrewed the cap. “Anything to mix it with?”

“He got it because I told him that's what you liked,” Juliet said. “And you noticed there was juice in the freezer, but I guess you were too busy making a point about your popsicles to notice what kind it was?” She opened the freezer and handed him a frozen can with the Dole logo.

Spencer gasped in delight. “This kitchen is magical!” he'd said, and started rooting through the cupboards for a pitcher to make the juice. Lassiter had simply finished getting the chicken ready, thinking about how quickly both of them had taken to treating his place so familiarly, and how much he didn't mind that. It was actually kind of nice.

Now, with Juliet on her third glass of wine, Lassiter on his third scotch, and Shawn in the middle of downing his second huge glass of vodka and pineapple juice (which he'd announced should be called a Psychdriver), they went into the living room to relax. Juliet went immediately to the wall where Lassiter had hung his awards and commendations, exclaiming over the ones he'd added to his collection over the last eighteen months. She smiled warmly at him as he began to tell her about which of his recent accomplishments and feats had earned each one, his eyes more and more on her face instead of the plaques. Her impressed expression made him feel prouder than on the days he'd received them, and the thought flashed into his mind that there wasn't much he wouldn't do to see that look on her face and aimed at him.

“Lame... lame... lame...” Spencer was muttering, flipping through the CDs next to the stereo system. He paused, and gave Lassiter a dubious look over his shoulder. “Alan Jackson? Really?”

He shrugged. “You hear it a lot down here, and it's actually not that bad.”

Spencer snorted, his fingers snatching up two jewel cases. “Oooh, LeAnn Rimes and the Dixie Chicks. This is fucking high class, Lass.”

“I'm sorry I don't have any Whitesnake or Duran Duran,” Lassiter said, a little annoyed.

“You should be.”

“Shawn, don't be the end of a roll of toilet paper,” Juliet said. She gave Lassiter a knowing look. “He listens to The Chipmunks when he thinks no one's looking.”

“Hey, don't knock the Munks.” Spencer set his glass on one of the bookshelves and began perusing the section on eastern European maneuvers during World War II. Lassiter watched him suspiciously, perfectly certain that he didn't give shit one about the military—or probably any part of Europe, for that—and was about to say something when Spencer suddenly turned to him quickly, opened his mouth, shut it, darted his eyes around the room, turned back to the bookshelf, pulled one out at random, and cracked it open. “Hmm,” he said. “That's interesting. Jules, did you know there was a Major Hopfinagle? I wonder where you might get a Minor Hopfinagle in this town.”

“Probably nowhere,” she said mildly. “You'd have to start with the Private Hopfinagle and then move on to the Public Hopfinagle, but that's probably illegal in this county.”

Lassiter glanced at her, sure that something was going on but completely mystified as to what it was, and saw her widen her eyes meaningfully. Great, now if only he knew what it was supposed to mean. 

“I'm not psychic!” Spencer blurted.

Lassiter looked at him, watching him glance at Juliet, who nodded encouragingly. He folded his arms. “I know.”

“Fine.” Spencer closed the book and put it back, then he hooked his thumbs into his pockets and shuffled his feet. “You've always known, but now I'm telling you. There's no such thing as psychics. I'm hyper-observant and I have a photographic, eidetic memory. I've been able to see things and notice things since I was a little kid, and my dad trained me to use it to deduce and reason. There. That's how I know stuff.”

It was quiet for a long moment while Lassiter looked at him and thought about it. “Hyper-observant and a photographic memory,” he said slowly. "Detective Henry Spencer training you from a child to solve crimes." Shawn glanced up at him once, looked at Juliet again, and then went back to examining the pattern in the wood floor. “So what you're telling me is that you really are Sherlock Holmes,” Lassiter said finally.

“That would be awesome,” Spencer said, finally glancing up. “But no. Well... kind of? Noticing things, and knowing what they mean—it's just something I've always been able to do. And I'm good at it. I never outright planned on telling people I had some weird powers, but once I could use it, there wasn't any reason not to, because I got results. That's the part that matters, right? Criminals are always inventing new ways to get around the law, so as long as we're not breaking any ourselves, we do what we can to stop them. You said that.”

“I did,” Lassiter agreed simply, unable to help but slightly enjoy Shawn's new uncertainty and bemusement.

“Um,” he said, after another peek at Juliet. “So... I'm sorry I lied about it. You kind of didn't give me a choice at the time, and once I was in it was almost immediately in too deep, especially once Vick found out. That kind of happens to me sometimes. I have weird luck.”

“You have amazing luck,” Lassiter said, annoyed. “But that's not all, is it?”

Spencer raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, it is,” he said, and shrugged. “I just see things and make connections.”

“Luck and an exceptional memory are obviously huge parts of it, but plenty of people have that and can't do what you do.”

Spencer scowled, looked at Juliet again, and then shrugged sullenly. “Fine,” he said again. “I get it if you still don't believe me—I lied for too long. But that's actually the truth, and I don't have anything more to explain it, so if you still think I'm lying, or you still don't trust me, I guess I deserve that.”

Lassiter sighed. “That wasn't what I was saying. _That_ actually makes sense. What I'm saying, you moron, is that you're obviously fucking brilliant, even more so than I thought before. You must actually have a genius IQ, right?”

“Um... I guess?” Spencer said, surprised. “My dad doesn't like those sorts of tests, but my mom did a few with me when I was little, and that's what she said.”

“And you couldn't have said all of that before.”

There was a pause, wherein Spencer looked like he couldn't decide if he should be indignant, defensive, or apologetic. He looked at Juliet again, this time clearly wanting help, and she met Lassiter's eyes.

“To be fair, if he'd said, 'I'm a real-life genius Sherlock Holmes' when you questioned him, you wouldn't have believed him,” she said.

“Well, no, not if he put it like _that_ —”

“Lassie, I'm sorry!” Shawn clasped both hands together as if in prayer. “I lied, I'm bad, please forgive me, do I have to go cut myself a switch?”

Lassiter gave him a suspicious look. “Why, are you into that too?”

He shrugged, dropping his hands back to his pockets. “I'll try anything once, but you might want to start with the cuffs if you want to punish me.”

“I don't.”

“Aww.” Spencer licked his lips and grinned. “Do you want me to get down on my knees and beg for forgiveness?”

“I forgive you,” Lassiter said dryly.

Now he looked annoyed. “Stop ruining my bit!”

It was Lassiter's turn to look at Juliet for help; when he did, he saw that she was trying very hard not to laugh. “He has bits,” she explained.

“I have _big_ bits and I cannot lie.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes. “I'm pretty sure you _can_ —that was the problem, remember?”

Spencer held up his arms in exasperation. “Lassie! Will you _for once_ be cool! Just once! Be cool!”

“I—I bought you popsicles!” he sputtered. “That was cool!”

“That _was_ cool.” Spencer looked at Juliet. “Did you tell him to get those, too?”

She shook her head. “I suggested Funyons.”

Lassiter sighed and flicked a hand toward the pantry. “Those are in there too.”

Spencer grinned. “So you... just wanted to watch me eat a popsicle? Wow. No, that's totally cool, hang on, I'll get another one.”

“No, no, just—stop.” Lassiter held his hand up. When Spencer stilled again, looking wary but not attempting to leave the room, Lassiter drained his glass, handed it to Juliet, and then stepped closer to him, holding his eyes and speaking softly. “Thank you for telling me the truth,” he said. “It really is astounding. _You_ are. I understand why you've kept it up, and I won't tell anyone.”

“Oh.” Shawn's eyes were wide as he looked up, his voice barely audible. “Thanks.”

It was completely silent in the room. The only things Lassiter could see were those hazel eyes and that foxish face, the only things he could think about were the stubble on his pointed chin and angular jaw, and wondering what it would be like to touch it. He realized that he very well could, that Shawn likely wanted him to. They were very close now, almost—as the saying went—close enough to kiss. He tilted his head down and looked at him, drinking in how huge Shawn's eyes were, that he was barely breathing, that his lips were slightly parted. This was the moment when he stood at the edge of the drop, and now was the time to decide to step back, or to free-fall.

Well, fuck. He was kind of already falling. Juliet O'Hara had grabbed his hand and leaped out of the plane, and on the way down Shawn Spencer had cut away all three of their parachutes, laughing gleefully and holding his face to the sky. They were hurtling toward the ground faster and faster, all tied together and not caring. 

Splat.

Lassiter very gently touched Shawn's face, the tip of his thumb brushing his cheek and edging toward his mouth. “Shawn,” he said quietly.

“Yeah?” he asked, with barely a breath.

“Go get a popsicle.”

.

Juliet watched them, _her_ two, noticing how tentative but sure Carlton was, how Shawn almost looked stoned with pleasure, and she set both glasses she was holding down to free her hands. Shawn had let out a low breath and closed his eyes briefly when Carlton cupped his cheek, and she knew how badly he wanted to be kissed, but that he wouldn't rush it, or force it. Now it would happen, and they would all descend into it, trip on it, fall together. When Shawn headed for the kitchen to retrieve his treat, she wasted no time.

Carlton turned back toward her, starting to ask something, but his eyes widened when he saw that she was right there, and her hands on the back of his neck pulled him down, her mouth swallowing his question alive. He immediately put both of his hands on her hips and pulled her close, and she had to resist an urge to push against him hard, to shove him against the wall and hold him there. 

Instead, she pulled him, backing up to the sofa, and when he came along, not wanting to let her go, she swung him around, threw him into the deep cushions, and straddled him. He tried to take in another breath and she swallowed that too, wanting him to know who could take every part of him now. He put his hands in her hair and she gave him her tongue, and when he finally had to break away to breathe properly, he was panting, his chest heaving, and she smiled down at him, satisfied.

Shawn flopped down on the couch next to them, only the stick of the popsicle protruding from between his lips. He pulled it out slowly and licked his lips. “The not-cherry one is good,” he approved, and held it out. “Who wants to lick my banana? Jules? Taste?”

She grinned and reached forward, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him closer. “Sure,” she said, and tasted him. He was banana-riffic, all right, his mouth cold and sweet. When she pulled back, he dunked the fruit pop down to the back of his throat again and noisily slurped up some of the juice dribbles.

“Nummers, right?” he said, and then held it out to her again, this time with the stick first. “Want to trade for a little bit?”

“Okay.” She carefully took the popsicle, then slid onto the side of the sofa and stuck it into her mouth while Shawn took her spot.

.

Lassiter looked up at Shawn steadily, but then his eyes flew wide open and he jerked when Shawn leaned forward and put his lips on his neck. “Jesus, you're freezing!”

He smirked and backed up a little, but the weight of him was still comfortably solid and centered on his lap. “Want to warm me up?”

Lassiter carefully touched his leg, then set both hands on his hips, just above the waistband of his pants. “Okay,” he said softly. “You'll have to tell me what you want, though. This is somewhat new to me.” He looked at Juliet.

She smiled. “Do you want us to lead you?”

He nodded, giving in completely.

“No prob,” Shawn said. “The safeword is 'methylchloroisothiazolinone'.”

Lassiter rolled his eyes, and then gave him a suspicious look. “Do I need a safeword?”

“Nah, not this time—we'll be very nice, won't we Jules?”

“So nice you can hardly stand it,” she agreed softly.

Lassiter looked at her for a long moment, and then back up at Shawn. “So... how do you want me to warm you up?”

“There are tons of ways.” He grinned and leaned closer, smelling like bananas and pineapple. “I already gave you a great idea, though. Think back—it was a _very_ specific request.”

“Oh.” He immediately recalled what it was, and when his cock remembered as well and throbbed painfully, he knew Shawn felt it too, because he pressed his own crotch forward more firmly. “I think I can probably comply with that,” he said slowly.

“I hope so,” Shawn said, his face so close now that Lassiter could feel his air on his mouth. “Because if she's the only one that gets it this time I'm going to cry, cry, cry ninety-six tears.”

Lassiter moved his thumbs a little, stroking his warm skin. “That reference is at least as old as I am. But I don't think it will come to that.”

“Good,” Shawn breathed, and kissed him.

Lassiter had never kissed another man before, and the feeling was strange but exhilarating—mostly, it was the same as kissing a woman, except for the stubble he felt on his lips and the fact that it was _Spencer's_ tongue in his mouth, making his cock twinge and his hands quiver. Despite how eager he obviously was, Shawn was surprisingly gentle, at first only applying a little pressure with his lips, then slipping his tongue in when Lassiter opened his mouth, pressing forward bit by bit and letting him give the signals that he was ready for more. When he finally had to back off for breath, Shawn pressed his face into his neck again and sighed contentedly, nuzzling him. Lassiter looked at Juliet, who was nonchalantly still working the popsicle with long licks; when she saw him looking at her, she smiled, sucked on it theatrically, then looked pointedly at Shawn and bounced her eyebrows.

Lassiter turned his head slightly, noticing that Shawn's hair smelled just like Juliet's—they had probably used the same shampoo. “Maybe I'm no longer sure you have my forgiveness,” he said in his ear.

Shawn sat up a little, squinted at him for a second, and then he snorted laughter. “Lassie, are you asking for a blowjob?”

“Um... maybe.”

“Then ask,” Shawn said smugly. “Here, I'll help. Say, 'Shawn, suck my dick.'”

“Shawn,” Lassiter repeated softly. “Please suck my dick.”

“Aww, he even threw in a 'please'.” Shawn nodded approvingly at Juliet. “He's really digging that southern hospitality.”

Juliet was almost completely through with the popsicle now, nibbling a bit still clinging to the stick. “Manners. He's always had them.”

“And so biddable.” Shawn grinned down at Lassiter, who was looking up at him patiently. “Now say, 'Ecky ecky ecky patang zoom-boing'.”

Lassiter gave him an exasperated look. “You're an idiot.”

“Whew, there go those manners again. Flattery will get you nowhere, you know.”

“Yeah, well, it's clearly not getting my cock gobbled,” he shot back.

Shawn looked delighted. “That was beautiful,” he said. “Now I'm hard.”

“You already were.”

“Yup.” Shawn leaned forward and kissed him again, shifting his hips so that most of his weight pressed against Lassiter's lower belly. “And that better be how you fuck me,” he breathed, “because if yours is the only dick I get now, please tell me I'm gonna _get_ it.”

Lassiter put one hand on his face and stroked his cheek with his thumb. “You're here for three more days,” he said softly. “And there's all the time in the world after that. Shawn Spencer, I promise you that I am _going_ to fuck you.” 

Shawn moaned softly, his eyes fluttering closed when Lassiter drew his face closer and kissed him, softly at first, and then they sank into each other, spinning back to Earth like a helicopter leaf let loose from an updraft. None of them knew where they were going to land, but there was no rush to get there, not when they were flying up so high, so together.

.

_Tell the truth and shame the devil._

Shawn wondered about that phrase, his mind in the peaceful and disjointed state he often slipped into just before sleep. What if the truth wasn't shameful? What if the devil was telling the truth? What if the devil didn't care? Either way, the truth could be a dangerous thing, but sometimes you just had to give it up and take what came, because it was important. Often times the truth was frightening, but more and more often he seemed to find that actually releasing it was the scarier part, especially when it had been pent-up for so long. Kind of like hearing earth-trembling roars from a locked cage, only to find that once you got up the balls to turn the key and open the door, there was nothing more inside than an irritated kitten. Kittens could be sharp, though. Soft and sharp, like Lassie could be.

Juliet snuggled closer into him and he pressed his face into her neck, smelling her perfume and her sweat and her hair gel. On her other side, Lassie was fitted to her big-spoon style, with one arm draped over her side and curled against her stomach. The mattress made a soft squeak when Shawn shifted again; tonight they had made it squeak and creek and almost shriek, and he smiled to himself, his whole body feeling pleasantly weak after how intensely he had come with Lassie's dick pounding him. For having never fucked a dude, the guy was definitely top five. He had only needed a little instruction from Jules on prep and technique before putting one of his big hands on Shawn's hip, the other in the middle of his back, and then slamming him into the bed so hard that Shawn was reduced to high-pitched yips and babbles, his hands fisted into the sheets. Juliet had ordered him to stop long enough to flip Shawn onto his back, and she'd held both of his arms above his head, preventing him from touching his own dick, until he could say nothing coherent except “please” while Lassie rocked his body somewhere between forever and ever. He had lost the ability to say even that when Lassie first touched his dick and then squeezed it, and when he'd come he'd been unable to breathe, his entire body galvanized. He would have been happy to remain like that forever, but when his lungs unlocked and his vision focused again, he was lying on his side dazedly, watching Juliet push Lassie down on his back and getting on top of him. Her breasts bounced as she rode him hard, and when he grabbed them and ran his thumbs over her nipples, she'd dissolved into wild bucking, her hair flying and her fingers gripping his shoulders so hard her nails bit in.

Now they were quiet, all three of them at first stretching out comfortably on the bed in Lassie's room, and then folding into each other more easily. Shawn was exhausted and sleepy—and still a little drunk—but he didn't want to close his eyes yet: he didn't want to lose out on one second of this feeling. He shifted a little once more, to shake away a few strands of Juliet's hair that were tickling his chin, and then he felt a calloused hand with long fingers loosely close around his wrist. He raised his head a little and saw pale blue eyes looking at him serenely, and when he felt Lassie's thumb stroke his hand, he grinned and lay his head down and fell asleep, his mind at ease.

.

Lassiter woke up with Juliet on top of him and Shawn curled into his side. It was barely light, but both of them were grinning mischievously at him, and he was already getting hard underneath Juliet. Shawn's cock pressed comfortably into his thigh and Juliet was naked, her shoulders thrown back and her thighs squeezing him, the space between her legs very warm and inviting.

“Rise and shine,” she said.

He smiled, both his dick and his heart rising as they showed him how much they wanted him. “Already?”

Shawn kissed the side of his face. “Dat's wight, wabbit,” he sing-songed.

Lassiter put one arm around him and caressed Juliet's thigh with the other. “Wascals,” he said, and they dived together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> +Soundtrack: "Three Way" by The Magnetic Fields, "Outset Island" by CSGuitar89.
> 
> You can listen to/stream the soundtrack for this fic [here](http://8tracks.com/acasofthousands/wascals) @8tracks. 
> 
> Shawn, Juliet, and Lassiter will continue to explore their developing relationships in "Duck You". Stayed tuned after these messages from our sponsors.


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